


the good shepherd

by neroh



Series: a moth to flame [2]
Category: Bourne (Movies), Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit (2014)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Espionage, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Injury Recovery, M/M, Porn With Plot, Post-Canon, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:04:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patterns are an arrangement or sequence regularly found in comparable objects or events; something Jack Ryan has always been able to find. Now that his life is in tatters and there's a target on his back, he finds himself struggling to come to grips with what's happened. With help from a former FSB agent who has a past of his own, Jack searches for answers and to finish this cat and mouse game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to rewrite this story (and parts of the series) because I wasn't pleased with the end product, so here is the new one. Thank you to Oana and Matt for their betaing while Bre is kicking ass in NaNoWriMo, Bre for letting me ruin her evening with excerpts, and Leah, Kellan, and Tresa for being amazing. 
> 
> The mix is located [here](http://8tracks.com/boldly/the-good-shepherd).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an attempted suicide in this chapter. Please read with caution.

He takes her to Paris because he promised he would.

Between dodging reporters and sitting through more meetings than he’d care to, Jack Ryan is able to plan a hasty city hall wedding just before he goes to Washington. He hasn’t had much time to process the turbulence that’s become his life; in fact, Jack hasn’t been able to even think about it with the rate he’s been shifting through the ashes.

“Have your bags packed by the time I get back!” he calls over his shoulder. As he’s running out the door to catch yet another flight to DC.

He doesn’t hear his wife’s response, so he doubles back to find Cathy standing over an opened suitcase sitting upon their unmade bed. Her clothing options are scattered in various piles over the comforter with her shoes at the foot of the mattress. “When will that be?” she asks without looking up, her face wrinkled in thought.

Jack goes to her, grinning from ear to ear, and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Not soon enough,” he tells her with another kiss. “I love you desperately.”

Cathy turns to him, smiling. “I love you, too,” she says, giving his chin a nudge with her thumb. “Now go! Before you miss your flight.”

“Yes ma’am!” Jack teases, laughing all the way to the car waiting for him.

He goes to Washington. The experience is akin to being a kid in a candy store and Jack can’t seem to wipe his boy scout grin from his face no matter how much Harper makes fun of him. He meets with some big wigs from the CIA whose names Jack wouldn’t be able to recall if put under pain of death.

By the time he returns home, he’s exhausted and wishing he didn’t have another flight to catch, even if it’s for his belated honeymoon. Cathy greets him at the front door with a deep kiss, her delicate fingers provocatively removing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. _Surgeon’s fingers_ , he thinks absently as she pulls him by the belt loops towards their bedroom.

“Our flight,” Jack reminds her between frantic kisses and the removal of their clothing. He’s undoing the hook of her bra when he realizes that if they do miss the plane, he can simply book another reservation.

Cathy pushes him onto the bed, grinning deviously as she slips her lingerie from her body. “I’ll make it quick, baby,” she assures before getting to work on his pants.

They nearly miss their flight, but still manage to arrive in Paris with that newlywed glow. It radiates from them during walks by the Seine and eating pastries near the Eiffel Tower.

In the privacy of their hotel room, it’s palpable. Jack, always one to explore, finds himself in bed with Cathy more often than not. Five days of over indulging without interruptions, late night phones, or nosey reporters ambushing them outside of their apartment.

It’s just him and Cathy like they used to be before this whole mess began.

By the time the trip ends - too soon, in Jack’s opinion - he feels as if the state of things is starting to return to the normalcy he craves. He yearns for the anonymity from before, when the dust was settled and surprises weren’t a part of his day.

Jack misses the familiarity of their bed and going to the little Italian place several blocks away from home. He wants their evenings out - the ones where they play pool and drink beers, laughing until their bellies ache and Cathy can’t walk straight. Those late nights where they have giggling, intoxicated sex and wake up in the morning to get the greasiest breakfast they can find.

Jack turns to his wife, viewing her profile as the grey afternoon light of Paris passes through the tinted windows of a town car. Clouds loom over the skyline comprised of old world architecture and sleek high rises, blurring together when the automobile accelerates and then coming into focus when they hit the famous traffic that this city to known for.

“What are you thinking about?” Cathy says, drawing him out of his thoughts. She flashes him a sweet smile when their eyes meet.

Jack shifts against the seat, a weary smile slowly forming. “A number of things,” he replies, moving his pinkie to link with hers. “What about you?”

Tilting her head against the headrest, Cathy shrugs. “A number of things,” she echoes teasingly. Like him, she seems tired - Jack can see it reflected in her warm brown eyes as they dart around the car. “Perhaps we should plan another vacation. You know, get away for a little while longer.”

“I heard Italy is nice this time of year,” Jack suggests as the car comes to an abrupt stop. The seat belt digs into his chest with the movement and he pulls a face. “You’d think these drivers were New Yorkers.”

Cathy smirks at the comment. “You _would_ think.” She shifts against her seat, fingers tapping against the door panel or her purse.

“You’re twitchy,” Jack observes, inching closer. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Cathy answers, grinning. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

He tilts his head, crooking a brow. “Are you nervous about going home?” he asks, watching as she opens her mouth to reply. “I can extend our vacation,” Jack offers. “Tell Tom that we missed our flight and can’t get another for a few more days…”

“Baby, it’s fine,” Cathy assures, shaking her head, as Jack says, “It won’t be a problem!”

The car jerks again, making a sudden turn and nearly colliding into the barrier. Their driver curses, gesturing rudely towards another before he veers towards a quieter street. A few more choice words are muttered, too low for Jack to make out.

He looks back to his wife, rolling his eyes in the direction of the front seat. “Do you want me to call Tom?” he asks.

The words are barely out of his mouth when another car comes out of nowhere and careens into theirs. Jack feels the impact knocking the wind from his lungs as his body is seemingly pulled in every direction. Glass shatters, bringing the memory of a crashing helicopter to mind before his vision whites out.

Jack comes back to himself, finding the car against a guardrail and the engine spurting until it dies. Glass is everywhere when he opens his eyes, groaning as daylight hits his pupils and multiplies. Blood trickles down his face and on his tongue when he swallows.

He hears Cathy cursing in a foreign tongue. As his brain sluggishly catches up, Jack recognizes it as Russian, a language he thought she had no knowledge of. He turns to her, finding her face covered in abrasions and a trail of blood dripping from a cut on her cheek. Her eyes are filled with fury as she addresses the driver, the anger causing her voice to tremble.

The driver is turned around in his seat, sneering at her as he gestures to Jack.

“ _Nyet_ ,” Cathy snaps. “ _On moy ubiystvo_!”

Jack recognizes the word almost immediately, having heard it said from Viktor Cherevin’s own lips - kill. His entire body goes cold, prickling as if pins are poking his skin. “What?” Jack manages to gasp, earning both Cathy and the driver’s attention.

What he finds in his wife’s face is not the woman he met and fell in love with. This stranger is seething with bloodlust and unrepenting betrayal. He can imagine her and Cherevin in the back of his van, quietly chuckling as the latter taunted Jack during their Moscow car chase.

 _Partnerships are delicate, Mr. Ryan_ , he had warned. _Sometimes they end violently._

Jack thought he was speaking of himself, but now he understands; Cherevin meant those around him. Those closest to him…

His wife.

The driver shouts.

A gun with a silencer attached to the muzzle appears in the seconds of the melee. Jack’s eyes widen while his mouth opens to shout in warning as the trigger is pulled. The tang of gunpowder fills the small space while the sound roars, causing Jack’s ears to ring. Three bullets embed themselves into Cathy’s chest, the force of them causing her to flail like a ragdoll before collapsing into the seat.

Jack opens his eyes - not realizing he had closed them - to find his wife’s face obscured by her hair. The scent of death is all around him, starting with the coppery sweetness of blood. Crimson stains the front of Cathy’s cream colored blouse, traveling down the silk like a morbid trail. It ends just above her lap where a gun lies slacks in her grasp. He notices her fingers curled around, ready to fire back if she had been quicker.

If Cathy had been swift enough to fire the bullets in her gun; the ones meant for him.

A scream builds in his throat, unable to release itself when the door flies open and Jack’s roughly pulled from his seat. There’s a flurry of Russian as he’s pushed into the side of the car with a gun pointed at the back of his throbbing head.

In his dazed obedience, someone grabs Jack by the wrists and tightly binds them together. A voice in his head, sounding awfully like his drill sergeant from basic, barks at him to start fighting back. To do something instead of just be still. Jack finds himself being spun around, catching a glimpse of the driver while he speaks to the others; he’s clearly the one orchestrating this for whomever hired him. Everyone else wears ski masks over their faces, blocking every feature save for their eyes.

Wracking through his mental list of faces, Jack begins to catalog who would want to kill him. It has to be someone close enough, a person with the knowledge of his whereabouts and how to find his proverbial Achilles Heel.

Someone who knew him well enough to wait until Jack felt comfortable enough to let his guard down before striking in the most vicious way possible.

He knows deep in his gut that Cathy wasn’t working alone; she couldn’t be. The mastermind has to be a person who has been there since the beginning - watching, waiting, and observing from the shadows until it was time.

The driver is dabbing at a cut above his brow, undoubtedly caused by the car crash, as he gestures to a damaged van while another pulls up. Smoke curls from the crumpled front of the decoy, billowing into the shattered window of the town car.

“Come,” another man orders, snapping Jack out of his observations. Their fingers sink into the tender skin of Jack’s bicep as they haul him towards the other vehicle while their comrades converse.

As he stumbles, Jack’s body protests the harsh treatment it’s received in the last five minutes and his knees give out. Jack’s cry of pain as he hits the cobblestone ground is cut short by the explosion from a pistol whipping across his temple. Stars flash in front of him, leaving nausea and lightheadedness in their wake; if it wasn’t for his captor holding onto him, Jack is certain he would be lying on his stomach.

“Up,” the man barks, tugging on him. “Now!”

After several attempts to stand, Jack is pulled to his feet and escorted to the back doors of the van. They’re open, revealing nothing but a metal floor with a wall separating him from the cockpit. A standard creepy, white van - entirely nondescript - that’ll allow Jack and his captors to disappear.

He’ll be dead before anyone knows he’s missing. Jack is certain of it. His body taken somewhere never to be found and the memory of him will fade into quiet obscurity.

The thought alone should terrify him and yet, all he yearns for is to pass out. To fall into the abyss and never wake up.

Or, better yet, to open his eyes and find these events are only a nightmare.

“This isn’t real,” he tells himself, unaware he’s uttered it aloud.

“What did you say?” his captor snarls in broken English. He jabs his gun into the small of Jack’s back, pressing painfully into faded surgery scars.

He doesn’t respond, pursing his lips together into a thin line and keeping his eyes straight ahead of him. Jack’s defiance earns him a fist to his gut, winding him for a second time in the span of five minutes. Coughing and sputtering, he collapses onto the edge of the van.

“Careful!” another person yells at his first captor as Jack is shoved into the van. They rush to his side before Jack can slip onto the unforgiving floor, anchoring him while they engage in an angry exchange with the other.

Sucking in several deep breaths, Jack lifts his eyes from his feet to those of the other captor and silently notices strange inconsistencies in his evolving kidnapping. The pair of boots from the second Russian are military issued, which doesn’t surprise him, though the lack of wear and tear does. Jack takes in the unscuffed leather and brand new soles, finding it strange, even in his injured state, that someone would choose a kidnapping to break them in.

The shrill sound of wheels spinning upon asphalt comes from a distance, moving closer and causing several of his kidnappers to voice their confusion. Before he can ask what’s going on, a deafening hail of bullets rains down upon them.

One of his kidnappers - the one with the pristine boots - grabs Jack and shoves him under his body. It’s in those moments this man becomes his tentative savior, shielding him from further injury. A shout escapes through Jack’s parted lips as the stranger rolls over, firing his weapon into Jack’s first captor.

He shudders with each clap of the trigger pulling, burrowing himself deeper into the stranger’s body until all Jack is aware of is the scent of sweat and gunpowder. Panic fills his lungs; he combats it with deep breathing as the chaos around him dies as quickly as it began.

The man’s footsteps clang against the metal floor as he rushes towards the doors. Jack opens his eyes to find his savior peering around the edge of one, gun drawn and ready. He’s wearing all black like the others, though his ski mask has been discarded near Jack’s head. The man’s dark hair is in disarray, a valley of spikes and cowlicks moving with the breeze.

His heavily accented baritone calls out in code, heartbeats passing until its reply comes. The stranger’s shoulders deflate with momentary relief before turning his attention back to Jack. His face is obscured by the daylight coming from behind, even as he hurries over to him.

“Dr. Ryan?” this man asks, pulling a knife from his jacket. He must see Jack nod, knowing he’s unable to trust his voice. “I’m here to help.”

Jack blinks as the bindings around his wrists are sliced through the middle, freeing him. The knife is put away, hidden in a pocket he cannot see.

“Come with me,” the stranger tells him offering a helping hand.

Anything is better than staying inside of the van, this much Jack knows. If his entire being wasn’t drowning from shock he might even chuckle at his logic as he follows this man who’s already saved his life.

Unless…

“How do I know you’re going to help me?” Jack slurs. He leans into the van, unable to ignore his flagging movements. Adrenaline is funneling out of his body, leaving the blossoming of bruises and other injuries more apparent. A groan comes as Jack loses his tedious grip and falls into the stranger’s arms.

The man catches him and holds him until Jack’s equilibrium steadies. “I haven’t tried to kill you,” he points out.

Lightly tanned skin encircles his own; that’s the next major detail Jack notes of this stranger before he has to close his eyes against the rising tide of nausea. “My head,” he groans, leaning heavily into him.

“Just a few more steps,” the other man urges, draping one of Jack’s arms over his broad shoulders to support some of his weight.

They walk towards another car, one meant to keep him from harm’s way. His mind goes to Cathy and a surge of energy powers through him as he swings them around towards the crash. Blinking deliberately, Jack finds himself in a sea of bodies, heavily ladened with smoke. He looks to the town car, now set ablaze along with the van that caused the crash.

“Cathy,” he whispers, tugging on the stranger to step closer to the wreckage. “Cathy…”

Flames lick the sky, sparking as they gain momentum and destroy everything in their path. Metal, leather seats, his wife’s body…all of it will be ash eventually.

“We can’t do anything for her,” the man says, trying to turn Jack away.

He shakes his head, extracting himself from his savior as tears pool at his waterline “She’s my wife!” Jack yells, stumbling without the aid. “I need to…”

The man grabs him, hoisting Jack up into his arms. “She’s dead.”

“Please,” he whimpers, unable to stop the cascade of tears falling down his face or the broken sobs withering his voice. “She’s my wife!”

If he could, Jack would scream himself raw and fight his way back to Cathy so he could hold her in his arms one last time. He would stay there until he, too, would die right along with her.

Instead the stranger carries Jack to the other car and gently places him on the back seat before closing the door behind them. Grief and pain come in waves, quickly submerging Jack as he sags against fabric and sobs. He misses his savior barking orders to the people in the front, telling them to hurry and to confirm their mission’s success.

“Cathy,” Jack moans as consciousness starts slipping through his fingers. Every part of him hurts, leaving Jack shaking and helpless as the other man tends to him. Gentle hands lift his head and shove a jacket under it for Jack’s comfort, however little it may be. “I need…”

He doesn’t know what he needs or wants - it used to be Cathy, but now her memory is tainted. Jack can still picture the sneer upon her pretty face and the cold depths of her eyes as she declared him to be her kill. She had been his wife; Jack had been her kill.

In a world that should no longer be surprising, Jack manages to find himself dumbstruck. The request dies upon his tongue, funneling away as his vision darkens to a pinpoint and then vanishes entirely. His free fall into oblivion isn’t as black as he imagined it to be.

It’s the color of moss caught between shade and sunlight.

 

* * *

 

He wakes from a dream in which someone is chasing him down an empty street.

Or perhaps Jack was doing the chasing; he can’t remember.

The street is dark, save for the green hued illumination from lamp posts towards the end. Jack keeps running, uncaring that the faster he tries to go, the slower his steps become. It’s as if he’s running in water or his legs are made of lead.

He reaches the end of the street where a man stands with his back to him. As Jack draws closer, he turns to reveal a pair of hazel eyes staring at him through the darkness and effectively jolting him back to consciousness.

It isn’t gradual, but sudden and painful.

Jack swallows, trying to wet his dry mouth and keep the contents of his stomach at bay. He lets out a moan; the vibration of sound feeling like it’s ricocheting off every surface and crushing his head. He cries out, curling into himself as someone addresses him, their voice heavily accented and too quick for him to recognize.

It washes over him like the sound of water running over pebbles, reminding Jack of the creek he and his cousins used to play in behind his aunt’s house. Before his parents were killed, before he was left alone for the first time.

Rough, calloused hands touch him, gently easing him to a reclined position and pressing the cool surface of a cup to his parched lips.

Jack feels the flow of water wet his lips and spread onto his tongue slowly. He drinks, grateful for the rehydration of his mouth and soothing his rebelling stomach. Once he’s had his fill he pushes it away from himself with clumsy hands.

The person lowers Jack down, minding his throbbing head. Their hands are cool and comforting like his wife’s and in that moment, Jack forgets her betrayal. “Cathy,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut.

“ _Nyet_ ,” a man says. The baritone he remembers from before; his voice honey thick and clearer without a mask over his face. “Rest now, Dr. Ryan.”

Jack groans, pressing his face into a pillow as a blanket is draped over him. “Cathy,” he says again, trying to open his eyes and focus on his surroundings.

It’s dark; pitch black and endless. Part of him wonders if the people responsible for his current situation want it this way - for Jack to be disoriented and exist in fear.

Except it wouldn’t make sense for them to rescue him.

“She’s not here,” the man tells him, carefully pushing Jack back down.

He hadn’t realized that he was struggling to get up. “What do you mean?” he asks. “What do you mean she’s not here? Where is my wife!”

A period of total silence falls between them before the other man speaks. “Do you remember what happened?” he carefully inquires.

“No,” he’s about to snap when all of the memories from hours - perhaps days ago - flood back. He struggles for breath, gasping and wheezing while the man keeps his hands on him.

Cathy, the car crash, the searing pain of her deception, blood and gunfire, death and destruction. It slams into Jack and threatens to break him apart until he realizes he’s not alone, his savior is still by his side, anchoring him with gentle, capable touches and not letting go.

“She’s dead,” Jack rasps as he stares into the darkness. He swallows. “She’s dead.”

“She’s dead,” the other man repeats.

Jack shakes his head as the tears come once more. “No,” he whimpers. “You’re lying.”

“I do not lie,” this stranger assures him, keeping his tone neutral. He eases Jack back down, tucking the blanket around him. “Lies are for cowards.”

Jack doesn’t recall him leaving when he comes back to himself later on. His body aches more than the last time, especially when he sobs his way to another uneasy slumber.

The cycle repeats itself, though the variations differ. Sometimes the stranger is there with food and water or offering Jack assistance to the bathroom. There’s no black sack pulled over his head or having to count his paces to the toilet. Other times he wakes to darkness and silence, the latter which lulls him back to sleep.

From what little he notices, Jack realizes he’s in a safe house. The bed he lies upon is a military cot and everything is kept dark because the stranger seems to understand that any amount of light causes Jack’s head to feel like it’s about to explode.

It’s dank and sad; the perfect place for someone who’s lost everything all at once.

 

* * *

 

His estimate of how long he’s been inside of the safe house is off. 

One thing is apparent - the fever Jack develops that simultaneously makes his skin feel like it’s going to burn off or his body shiver uncontrollably. He keeps his knees pressed into his chest, trying to find a comfortable position as he sweats and shakes upon the cot. It’s enough to make him forget the other traumas plaguing him, including the delirium that eventually sinks its claws into him.

Jack can feel Cathy there with him, pressing her soft hands against his feverish skin while she whispers comfortingly. He swears he can see her face and finds himself pleading through gritted teeth for her to stay with him. “Don’t leave me here,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to be alone.”

His savior comes more often, bringing cool compresses for Jack’s forehead and the back of his neck. More blankets come, heavier than the ones preceding them and are laid over his ailing body. But they could be nails for all he cares for what little comfort they provide him.

He’s fed broth and water; the two things Jack can mostly keep down, though that doesn’t even last long. They end up being vomited onto the floor and cleaned up by the other man. Jack notices that his savior doesn’t get angry when he rolls away from the smell to hide under the blankets.

“Where am I?” Jack groans later on. The stranger is back and for whatever reason, he can make out his face this time; heart shaped with dark stubble over the illuminated portions of his jaw. A divot peeks through his hair, revealing a network of scars on the side of his head. “Please tell me.”

“You are safe for now,” the man assures as he helps Jack sit up. His hand cups the base of Jack’s skull while the other hand pushes a pill into his mouth. “Swallow, it will help with the fever until we can move you.”

A cup of water is brought to his lips, washing away the bitter taste of the dissolving medication. “I _was_ safe,” Jack snaps. “I was going home!”

“ _Nyet_ ,” the other man says as he helps Jack lie down. “That woman would have killed you. Do you remember?”

He does remember; it’s all he remembers. “She was my _wife_.”

“She was a sleeper agent,” the stranger counters. “You were her target.”

Jack’s eyes begin to burn. “No, she was my wife,” he manages to choke out. “Cathy was my wife…”

“She was sent to kill you,” the man interjects, his words slicing through Jack like a knife. “I don’t know who she worked for, but I saw the file when I was assigned to help you escape.”

Jack’s lips tremble as tears spill down the sides of his face. “No, she was a doctor,” Jack insists. “I met her at Walter Reed.”

“She _was_ a doctor,” the stranger tells him. “And you did meet her at Walter Reed, Dr. Ryan, but she was also meant to murder you.”

Jack’s resolving crumbles. “Why would she do that? Why would she lie?”

“I do not know,” the other man answers. “She might have had a life with you, married you, but from the very beginning you were her target. Remember this every time you wish to mourn her.”

Jack lets out a strangled sob, not wanting to listen to him any longer.

“If she had been successful, your wife would have walked away without giving you a second thought,” the man continues. “She’d go onto her next assignment or disappear. Whatever she arranged to with her employer.”

He sucks in a breath. “I don’t want to believe you.”

“That’s fine,” the other man says. “You don’t have to, but you are a man of facts and logic. This is what I’ve been told about you, Dr. Ryan. When you are well, I will show you the file I was given and maybe then you will find the truth.”

He could have laughed at the way the man said these words, but all Jack can do is dissolve into a series of whimpers as he curls onto his side.

A hand touches the span of skin where his neck and shoulder meet, giving him a gentle squeeze before the man makes his exit and leaves Jack alone to his misery.

 

* * *

 

During spurts of coherency, Jack discerns he’s being taken from the safe house to another by various means of transportation.

There are flashes of faceless people moving him from the cot to a stretcher and then the night sky, a roof of a car followed by the ceiling of an airplane and the change of altitude. It all ends with him lying in a bed, surrounded by the pulmonic hiss of medical equipment.

Tucked under layers of soft linens, Jack’s eyes flutter open for a brief time. His skin no longer burns as hotly as it once had, heat disappearing along with the pain that used to radiate through his limbs. Shifting his head Jack catches a glimpse of his savior closing a set of curtains hanging on either side of a picture window.

He gets no further before the heavy pull of sleep claims him, though he can’t help but wonder why this man - a stranger whose name he doesn’t know - looks so relieved.

Natural light fills the room when Jack wakes later on. He blinks rapidly, trying to adjust his eyes to the intrusion after being kept in darkness for so long. He lies in bed, slowly taking in his new surroundings, noting that his stained and soiled clothing has been replaced by loose fitting sweatpants and a t-shirt. His injuries having been tended to, that much is obvious thanks to the IV line fastened to the back of his hand and a nasal cannula draped over his face.

Someone has gone to an awful lot of trouble to ensure his survival and comfort, causing Jack to wonder who.

A shuffle of paper comes from the window where a woman sitting. She scouring over a folder in her lap, clearly engrossed by her reading. “You want to know where you are and why,” she states without looking up.

Jack pushes himself up with his elbows, groaning at his body’s protests. Once he’s settled against the headboard, he takes in the richly ornate room. The wood paneling and brightly painted plaster suggests an older building - European if he’s correct - though the furniture and amenities are clearly modern.

“You are located in a safe house in Minsk and you're here because I want to make you an offer, Dr. Ryan,” the woman tells him as she closes the folder and looks at him. Her face is comprised of delicately cut, shrewd features that shows she’s no wilting flower. He’s seen her before, having remembered her steely eyes in passing while Jack was in Washington. “I know an awful lot about you; from your education to your time with the Marines, when Thomas Harper recruited you. I know that you have a knack for numbers and patterns - that’s why you were hired. You see details others overlook, details that Viktor Cherevin thought he’d hidden.”

Jack swallows. “How do you know?”

“It’s my business to know things,” the woman says as she rises from her seat and walks towards the foot of the bed. Folding her arms in front of her, she inclines her head. “Pamela Landy, Deputy Director of the CIA.”

While Jack chokes and sputters, she pulls out her cell phone. “It’s me,” Pamela says, entirely unfazed by their introduction. “He’s awake.”

They stare at each other while she listens to the person on the other end of the call. “Yes,” she states, going quiet again. Her eyes never leave Jack, like she’s making a study of him. “Tell Kirill to accompany you.”

She ends the call, her gaze still on him. Jack swallows under the scrutiny, as well as the power of hearing Pamela Landy’s name uttered by the woman herself. Many have tried to take her down, though none of them succeeded. She ignites both jealousy and fear alike; even Tom was frightened of her.

And now here Jack is, in the same room as her, breathing the same air. Pamela goes to a table closest to a door, where a jug of water sits on a tray. She plucks an empty glass and begins filling it.

“How long have I been here?” he asks, watching her.

“Five days,” Pamela answers. She brings the glass to him like some sort of peace offering. “Kirill notified me that your fever took a turn for the worse and we were able to find a window to transport you out of France.”

Jack sips on the drink. “Why go to all this trouble?”

“You are too valuable,” she says. “And you know more than you realize.”

“Except who ordered a hit on me.”

She shrugs. “We can change that,” Pamela assures. “We already know Cathy Mueller was a sleeper agent and she was contacted to terminate you. My analysts guess the timeline to be one to two days before my team was able to intercept you.”

He goes quiet, staring mindlessly at the comforter until Pamela eases the glass from his hand. “It was retribution for stopping Cherevin.”

“Perhaps,” Pamela answers.

The door creaks open, earning both Pamela and Jack’s attention. Two men filter in, closing it behind him. One of them Jack recognizes as Tom Cronin, the Deputy Director’s right hand man while the other only looks vaguely familiar.

Shutting his eyes, Jack recalls the face of his savior disappearing as a pair of curtains shut with a single motion. Upon opening them, he finds these men standing next to Pamela.

The older of the two is conferring with her in voices too low for Jack to hear clearly while the other man stares back at him. By the light of day, he sees that the man’s an inch or two taller than Jack’s six feet and has hazel eyes. He’s attractive in that Eastern European sort of way, if one favors the slow to smile, brooding types.

“Dr. Ryan,” Pamela says, causing Jack and his savior to break eye contact, turning their stares to her. “Misters Tom Cronin and Kirill Dragomirov,” she says, gesturing to both of them.

Jack nods. “Mr. Cronin and I’ve met briefly,” he says.

“I have no doubts,” she tells him. “You’re familiar with Mr. Dragomirov.”

An uncomfortable silence falls upon the room as Jack lowers his eyes to the bed. “Yes,” he softly replies.

“He is one of my assets as you have probably already guessed,” Pamela elaborates.

Jack shrugs. “Black-Ops,” he states. “Tasked with the CIA’s dirty work or, in my case, rescue missions.”

“I have many employers,” Kirill corrects, speaking for the first time since entering the room. “The CIA happens to be one of them.”

Jack raises a brow. “ _One_ of them?”

“ _Da_ ,” Kirill says. “I am what you call a freelancer.”

A dismissive snort slips, though Jack doesn’t really care. “A freelancer,” he echoes bitterly. “You mean, you work for the highest bidder. Whoever has the most cash, you do their bidding.”

“Mr. Dragomirov intercepted a group of people who were sent to terminate you and kept you secured until we were able to get you out of France,” Pamela counters, sternly. She has an equally stern expression on her face when Jack’s eyes turn to her.

He glares. “Too bad he couldn’t intercept my wife,” Jack hisses. “You know…before I decided to marry her. Or hell, even when we first met.”

“Sleeper agents are difficult to track,” Kirill tells him, keeping his tone calm. A spark of annoyance reaches his eyes - the only thing that gives him away. “As a Marine, you should understand.”

Gawking and with his jaw falling slack, Jack feels the first flares of rage pulsing through his veins. “Is this guy for real?” he snaps, turning his attention to Pamela and Cronin. Straightening his posture, he attempts to look as intimidating as possible. “You don’t know a fucking _thing_ about me!”

“That is where you are wrong, Dr. Ryan,” Kirill says. “In a world filled with secrets, you of all people should know that they’ve gotten harder to keep.”

Before Jack can respond the other man turns to Pamela, muttering something in Russian. She replies back, beginning several minutes of them going back and forth. Kirill keeps his voice irritatingly calm, though Jack notes a slight change whenever he gestures towards him.

“Enough,” Pamela finally says in English, sounding exasperated. She has a scowl upon her face that pacifies Kirill into silence. “Dr. Ryan, I understand that this is a difficult time for you, given the manner in which you were removed from your situation. We had a limited amount of time to get to you without raising anyone’s hackles, including Dr. Mueller.”

Jack levels his stare at Pamela. “I watched her get shot,” he states, his voice trembling. “I heard her say I was her kill. She lied to me the entire time we were together, but I _loved_ her.”

“Understood,” she says, gently. It’s strange to see such a powerful individual like Pamela Landy yielding to a person’s hurt, even someone as lowly as Jack. “I am sorry for your loss, Dr. Ryan.”

The thing is that he wants to believe her and the genuine apology that comes from her mouth. He used to be believe a lot of things, but now Jack finds that harder, if not impossible to do. Averting his eyes once again, Jack squeezes them shut as tears pool uncontrollably.

“When you are ready, there is a file that may be of interest to you,” Pamela tells him. “It has most of the information pertaining to your wife’s assignment. We were able to obtain it from her devices - cellular phones, computers, tablets…it’s at your disposal if you should want to see it.”

Jack stares at his fingers, noticing the cuts littering the skin and the indentation of where his wedding band used to be. He feels naked without it, stripped bare for everyone to see all of his secrets and the violation of trust pressed upon him.

“Gentlemen,” Pamela says to Cronin and Kirill, discreetly motioning for their departure of the corner when she thinks Jack isn’t paying attention. She goes to Cronin, exchanging knowing looks before Pamela addresses Kirill. As she whispers into his ear, the other man gives her a hesitant nod without sparing a glance in Jack’s direction.

Instead, he leaves as quietly as he came. What Kirill could be thinking is beyond Jack’s comprehension and if he had enough energy to care, he doubts he would even ask.

Cronin follows after him, leaving Jack alone with Pamela once more. She goes to gather her things from the chair, carefully putting the files back into her bag. When she’s finished, Pamela returns to the foot of the bed with a leather briefcase clutched in one hand and her jacket draped over the other arm. Standing there all poised and distinguished, she sighs sympathetically. “There is a bathroom through this door,” she says with a gesture to a door situated behind her. “And a buzzer in the nightstand. It will alert Kirill if you should need anything.”

He looks to the piece of furniture. “Is it just him?”

“For now,” Pamela answers. “The less people who know of your survival, the better since we haven’t figured out who wanted you dead.”

A shiver goes through his spine. “That’s just _great_ ,” he mutters.

“I wish I could say that I understand, Dr. Ryan, but you and I both know the truth,” she says, cocking her head as she looks at Jack. “A lot of people put their lives at risk to ensure your safety.”

“And now you’re making me feel guilty,” Jack chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Maybe you should have let Cathy finish the job if it was so much trouble for you.”

“You don’t mean that,” Pamela states in an icy tone that makes his blood run cold.

Jack balls his fists against the comforter, pressing his lip together into a thin line as he tries to hold back the explosion of angry words dangling from his tongue.

“Get some rest, Dr. Ryan,” she says before spinning on the heel of her designer shoes and walking to the door. As Pamela goes to turn the knob, Jack clears his throat. “Something else?” she asks.

Jack nods. “What’s the name of this operation?”

“What makes you think it has a name?” Her body language screams her annoyance with Jack’s unnecessary and puerile behavior. She rolls her eyes upon seeing his arched brow. “Of course you know it does,” she mutters to herself. “As you have probably realized, your current status with the CIA is listed as missing in action. This will change when you determine how you’d like to proceed.”

“I get a choice?”

Pamela shrugs. “You can assist us in uncovering who wanted you dead and get your life back, whatever life that may be,” she explains. “Or you will be given a new identity and you’ll disappear. John Patrick Ryan will cease to exist. Those are your choices.”

“Still doesn’t answer my question,” Jack says with more confidence than he feels. “What’s the name of the operation?”

She flashes him a secretive smile worthy of the _Mona Lisa_. “Operation Boy Scout,” she replies before opening the door and leaving.

 

* * *

 

Energy is fleeting, this much Jack knows from breaking his back.

Yet again, so is patience.

He spends his first weeks in Minsk inside of a quiet bedroom where no one comes to bother him. Jack sleeps away the minutes, hours, and days, allowing for the mental, emotional, and physical toll his plight has taken on him to settle into his body and reside there. The shock of his predicament has drained him to the point of a breakdown, albeit a very quiet one.

The car accident and fever have ravaged his body, leaving Jack with a sickly pallor when he looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He hardly recognizes the battered man staring back with constellations of bruising and scabs. Their color changes daily, fading from the deepest purples to yellow and green.

It’s a sign of healing, but to Jack it’s just a reminder.

A reminder of how quickly the safety of his world has been taken from him.

He goes through the motions of brushing his teeth and showering, though it’s mostly Jack turning the faucet to the hottest temperature his body can handle and sinking onto the tiled floor of the shower stall. There, he buries his face into his hands and sobs while the water pelts him until it runs cold.

Eventually, Jack musters the energy to dress himself and stumble back to bed, not bothering to climb under the linens. He promises himself he’ll do it later, once he’s slept enough to regain his energy. When he stirs several hours later, it’s to rain hammering against the windows and Kirill arranging his limbs before drawing the blankets over him.

“Go back to sleep,” he tells him.

Jack complies; he’s too tired to argue, not to mention that Kirill is more than capable of snapping him in half. As the last visage of consciousness ebbs and flows, he fights against the urge to flee. It’s only natural for him to want that, though Jack knows he’s too weak to do it in his current condition.

So he waits, biding his time and quietly observing Kirill’s routine.

Jack learns his patterns - from when he comes to check on his charge to when he retires to his own bedroom at night - and the way the safe house is operated. The front door has a keypad Kirill uses to come and it seems to be the only one with such security.

Judging by the height from his bedroom windows to the street below, they are located inside of a penthouse and they may be the only occupants of the building. He never hears anyone else in the few times Jack has ventured out of his room, tip toeing around even though Kirill has gone out for an errand.

It’s clear to Jack that he has the unsaid permission to roam about if he chooses to. He goes through cabinets and cupboards, closets and drawers; trying to find anything that would be of use to him. Inside of a second bathroom - Kirill’s he surmises - Jack discovers a medicine cabinet, though his intent to inspect it further is thwarted by his minder’s sudden return.

Jack lets another week go by until he ventures back to the bathroom in an effort to keep Kirill from finding out what he’s been doing. He thinks of Cathy as the days pass, wondering if she ever cared for him or if his touch caused her to recoil. Had she felt a stab of regret when she received the call to end his life or was she glad to finally be free of him?

When he had said his wedding vows, Jack meant every word. He wanted to cherish Cathy until the end, to keep her safe and happy. To have a long and wonderful life with her.

Now that her carefully constructed lies have been torn apart, Jack finds himself drowning in despair. Instead of fleeing, he just wants to finish what Cathy started. The medicine cabinet must have something inside of it to help Jack. Something that will cause his broken heart to cease beating as he draws his last breath.

Sure, Pamela Landy and her team used every resource to keep him alive. He’s grateful, he supposes, but Jack can’t live like this.

It’s late at night when he dares to venture back to the bathroom. A thrill sparks down his spine as he quietly slips inside and shuts the door behind him. The full moon looms overhead, bright enough for him to read the bottle labels unaided without turning on the lights.

Jack catalogues each one, most of them are for pain management and won’t do him any good. Frustration comes and grows as he scans through the bottles and begins to debate on smashing the mirror instead when he spots _Temazepam_ neatly typed onto one of the plastic cylinders.

He recalls Cathy mentioning it a time or two; a prescription sleep aid that helps the user fall asleep and stay that way until morning. Dangerous if misused, but perfect for his purposes. Jack snatches it and hurries back to his room, morbidly gleeful as he secludes himself in his own bathroom.

He fills a cup with water, watching the liquid rise until it nears the top before turning off the faucet and opening the bottle. Jack taps it with his index finger, counting each pill that rolls out onto his palm. Starting with ten, he knocks them back two at a time, using the water to swallow the pills down.

The water is gone by the time Jack ingests the last one, grimacing at the taste it leaves upon his tongue. He washes the glass and sets it back in its place alongside the toothbrush holder.

He waits.

It’s all he can do while the drug takes effect; waiting for just the right time to haul himself to bed for the rest of it. He avoids his reflection in the mirror, not wanting the last thing he sees to be his own haunted face. The evidence confirming his downward spiral and how rapidly it’s happened.

What he expects of an overdose isn’t what happens. He thinks somnolence and dizziness will come for him first, rocking Jack to sleep until respiratory depression takes hold and he slips into a coma or death. Something peaceful to make up for the last terrible weeks of his life.

He loses track of how long he stays in the bathroom, long enough for him to wonder if he needs another dose. Jack reaches for the bottle when a stabbing pain sets his stomach on fire. It jolts through his body, causing him to knock the pills over. They spill onto the rug, landing soundlessly while the same cannot be said for Jack. He crashes to the tiled floor, clutching his middle as a wordless cry forms on his lips. The excruciating pain steals his voice as Jack crumbles, overwhelmed.

The rest of his agony comes all at once, slamming into him in the worst way.

He screams, the sound vibrating off the walls and alerting Kirill, whose foot falls quickly approach. Jack hears the door flying open, nearly coming off the hinges, upon the other man’s entry.

In the space of heartbeats, Kirill takes in the scene before him. “What did you do?” he growls, rushing to Jack’s side. He grabs him, cupping his face between both hands, and stares deeply into Jack’s eyes before letting him go.

The sound of the bottle and pills being shifted fades under another cry of pain and Kirill’s curses.

“Stay here,” Kirill demands as he leaves.

Jack laughs harshly. “Where the fuck am I going to go?” he shouts after him, words slurring as the medication assaults his system. He slumps onto the floor, lying on his side while his eyelids flutter shut. “Too tired to go anywhere.”

He chokes at another stabbing sensation, grunting onto the tiles. Jack absently curses his decision and how he hadn’t signed up for _this_ \- all of this suffering and now the indignity of Kirill coming to his rescue, _again_.

Hands grip his shoulders, shaking him until Jack opens his eyes to find himself looking at Kirill. Tense lines of worry tighten the skin around his eyes as he bodily hauls Jack to the toilet. Water runs, filling the cup he had used earlier until it stops and more rustling follows. Kirill shoves the cup under Jack’s lips.

“Drink,” he barks. “ _Now_!”

Jack listens, too afraid and too desperate to do otherwise. He parts his lips, allowing warm water and salt into his mouth. Some of it ends up on his shirt when he doesn’t swallow it immediately. Kirill pinches his nostrils together to force him and dumps more of the concoction down his throat when Jack tries to breathe.

“ _Zadrota_ ,” Kirill hisses. “Idiot!”

Jack gags, clumsily scrambling for the toilet basin. Kirill gets him the rest of the way there, pushing him down just in time for him to vomit. It comes up so violently that it leaves Jack gasping for air while the contents of his stomach splash around in the bowl. Another wave comes, bringing tears to his eyes. Moaning, Jack slumps against the porcelain while Kirill makes the mixture again and feeds it to him.

“Crimson,” Kirill says distractedly. Jack opens his eyes long enough for him to see the other man cradling a cell phone between his cheek and shoulder. “Code Beta. I need medical assistance for a _Temazepam_ overdose; treatment has been started.”

Jack cries out and vomits again, continuing to do so until his stomach muscles ache and tears are pouring down his cheeks, mixing in with sweat. He can’t stop any of this - not his disaster of a life nor his failed attempt to end it. It’s then, Jack begins to sob, filling the small space with his despair while Kirill rubs slow circles between his shoulders.

“ _Vy budete v poryadke_ ,” the other man whispers into his ear. He sits behind him now, supporting Jack as he cards his fingers through his sweat ladened hair. “ _Ya zdes_. It’s over now.”

Others come, separating Jack from Kirill to lie him on his back and fastening an oxygen mask over his face as an IV catheter is pushed into the crook of his arm. He can’t keep himself awake; exhaustion is settling in rather than death.

Jack gives in to the tantalizing pull of unconsciousness as voices - too many of them - ask him questions with no answers.

All he sees is Kirill’s worried stare, fading and fading until it’s gone.

 

* * *

 

“You did not want to die,” Kirill says when Jack wakes up.

He half expects to be strapped down to his bed; he probably deserves it. Jack works the muscles of his aching throat as he turns his head towards the other man’s voice.

Jack doesn’t have to search far for Kirill, as he’s sitting in the chair Pamela once occupied, having pulled it up to his bedside. He looks exhausted, which Jack knows is solely his fault. This man has been tasked with keeping him alive and has probably stayed in that spot once the medical team left.

How long Jack has been resting, he has no idea, but long enough for bruises to form under Kirill’s eyes.

“What makes you think that?” he croaks. Thanks to Kirill’s impromptu treatment, his throat is left feeling like it’s been set on fire after consuming glass.

Kirill leans closer to the bed. “You would have done a better job.” Hardness settles upon his face, like he’s seconds from snapping.

“I don’t like you very much, Kirill,” Jack tells him, sounding defeated even to his own ears.

The other man shrugs. “I don’t care. I am your handler, who has been tasked with keeping you alive until you decide if you want to find the people who did this to you or disappear.”

“You’re sick,” he rasps. “You’re a sadist!”

Kirill laughs as he palms his face. “Sadist he calls me. Sadist like I enjoy his suffering.”

“Why didn’t you let me die?” Jack whispers through trembling lips. “You could have gone back to bed…”

“And listened to your screams until you finally passed out or choked on your own vomit? _Nyet spasibo_ ,” Kirill interjects with a frown. He pulls the chair closer to the bed. “If you do this thing, you will be giving the people responsible _exactly_ what they want. Is this what you want?”

A lone tear falls down his cheek, disappearing under the curve of his jaw. Jack shakes his head after a moment.

“Recover and give them hell as you Americans say,” Kirill urges. “When you are ready.” His fingers suddenly latch onto Jack’s arm, roughly tugging him forward until they are inches apart from one another. Kirill’s face has transformed into one of a killer. “If I ever catch you doing that again, _malchik_ , I will make sure you survive just so _I_ can kill you. I do not lie when I say it will be very painful. Are we clear?”

Trembling, Jack nods.

“Say it!” Kirill growls.

“We’re clear,” he rasps quickly. With a shove, Jack finds himself back against the pillows.

The fear his minder has instilled in him leaves him shaking long after Kirill has left the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack learns, through a series of phone calls placed on the fringes of his hearing, that Kirill lied about the circumstances of his suicide attempt.

He’s uncertain of it at first; his latest medical emergency has brought the fever back with a vengeance and when Jack isn’t sleeping, he’s under close observation. Kirill all but moves into his bedroom, dragging a cot inside one evening and setting it up at the foot of Jack’s bed. It only takes a glare from the other man for Jack not to even question it and he begrudgingly accepts the new arrangement.

Their interactions have been tense from the beginning, but now it’s oppressing. Kirill watches over him like a hawk, hardly allowing Jack out of his sight and following him around like a shadow. He’s staring at him while he eats, sitting on the toilet while Jack showers, standing just beyond the bathroom door while he shits.

Anything Kirill thinks could be used by Jack to harm himself again is removed from his quarters and only within reach if the other man is standing next to him. Razors, nail clippers, scissors…Jack has to ask for all of them to be brought to him and used under Kirill’s watch.

Jack never says anything, not wanting to test the other man’s patience any further. He has a feeling that Kirill almost hopes that he will to cross that invisible line, just so he can snap his neck.

He learns the full extent of the lie when Cronin arrives to check in on the situation. Clearly the situation has Pamela worried enough for him to be sent in the first place. Kirill and Cronin are whispering outside of his bedroom as Jack dozes or attempts to, anyway.

“You’re certain it was the fever?” Cronin questions.

“ _Da_ ,” Kirill replies. “He was burning up when I found him… _bredovyy_.” He clucks his tongue, searching for the English equivalent. “Delirious, you say?”

Cronin makes a sound of acknowledgment. “So you believe Dr. Ryan didn’t know what he was doing?”

“ _Tochno_ ,” the other man says.

“How has he been doing since the incident?” Cronin asks.

Jack nearly blows his cover and snorts. The Incident, like his failed attempt on his own life, is something for the Situation Room.

“Tired,” Kirill answers, dutifully. He doesn’t have to lie about that; Jack has been exhausted. Paired with the injuries sustained in Paris, his mental and emotional fatigue, and now _this_ , his body has reverted back to the state he was brought in with.

If he isn’t fighting to stay awake, he’s sleeping. If he isn’t sleeping, he wants to. The cycle seems vicious and never ending and his own damn fault.

Their voices fade away as Cronin and Kirill retreat, giving Jack some much needed quiet. Later, when Kirill comes in so he can sleep on the cot, Jack finds the courage to ask the question pressing on his conscience.

“Why did you lie?”

Kirill is heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth and pauses mid-step to turn to him. At first, he seems like he’s going to deny it, but then he shrugs. “You weren’t in your right mind.”

The confession falls between them, starting to bridge the gap that’s been there from the start.

“How do you know?” Jack counters, gently.

“Is anyone who tries to hurt themselves?” Kirill asks before disappearing into the bathroom. A question with a question, but Jack can read between the lines.

It’s enough for him to realize that Kirill has been in that bleak place before and understands more than he lets on.

 

* * *

 

Eventually the fever breaks and Jack begins the slow process of rejoining the world.

He gives himself a much-needed shave and eats a full meal that mercifully doesn’t consist of broth and crackers. He asks Kirill for some books to be brought to him, which is done by other members of Landy’s team.

They are just as stoic as Kirill; never engaging in long conversations with Jack and going as far as not even bothering to make eye contact. They come and go; they must know who he is and why he’s being kept there. Whoever they are, Pamela must trust them implicitly for them to be privy to his survival.

Eventually Kirill removes the cot from his bedroom just as quietly as he brought it in, deeming Jack well enough to sleep by himself.

Having gotten used to the other man’s constant presence, nights are now the loneliest time for him. For as quiet as Kirill is, Jack could always count on the rustle of his body moving as he slept or the faint sound of snoring. All the little signs that he wasn’t alone.

Jack is comfortable enough to admit he’s grown inadvertently fond of Kirill. It’s not because he saved his life, which he’s grateful for, but despite his threats and clucking about he’s made it clear he knows what Jack is going through.

Or at least, understands it more than most.

It surprises him when Kirill makes an overture of friendship one morning.

Jack is toweling himself off following a shower while he remembers all of the times he used to plague himself with thoughts of his morning routine. Cathy would be there as they got ready for their respective jobs. She would be fiddling with the blow dryer while he shaved before their eyes met in the reflection of the mirror, both of them still sleepy and smiling. Cathy would go to him and wrap her arms around his waist so they could stand there for a moment and revel in the quiet of the morning before continuing on with their day.

It used to make his eyes burn and his heart ache; now it’s the furthest thing from Jack’s mind. He goes through the motions, pacing himself so he doesn’t feel overwhelmed. He never thinks of the silly little things he and Cathy used to do or how it used to be real.

No. He’s stopped thinking about her entirely.

Jack drops the towel on the counter and using one hand, leans against the cool surface to pull up his sweatpants.

“Dr. Ryan?” Kirill calls from the bedroom.

He looks up to find the other man’s reflection in the mirror. He’s standing just beyond the threshold, wearing his customary dark clothing and unreadable expression, the one reserved for times when Jack hasn’t done something stupid.

“I’ve brought you something,” he tells Jack. “Come and I’ll show you.”

Nodding, Jack watches Kirill disappear from sight and continues on with his routine. The floors creak under the other man’s movements, followed by a lid being opened and undetermined activity. When he comes out, Kirill’s back is to Jack, obstructing his view of what he’s doing.

“How was your shower?” he asks without looking up.

Jack shrugs in reply, standing off to the side while Kirill goes about his task. His muscles ripple under the material of Kirill’s shirt, dancing elegantly just like the way his fingers reach up to scratch the back of his neck. At the edge of his hairline lies the end of his scar. Almost as if reading Jack’s thoughts, Kirill states, “I was in a car accident like you. I was pursuing a target and crashed.”

“Some accident,” Jack comments.

Kirill glances over his shoulder. “The doctors in the hospital told me I was lucky and I asked them what does luck have to do with it? Of course, they had no reply. I believe you feel the same way.”

“Are you trying to say that I have rotten luck?” Jack asks as he pushes himself off the wall and comes closer.

“Bad timing,” Kirill corrects with a hint of a smile. He motions Jack over, holding a white object between his fingers.

It’s a rook piece.

“You want to show me chess?” Jack says in awe.

Kirill nods. “ _Da_. It’s different than reading, but different can be good.”

“What if I like reading?”

Kirill shrugs again. “Then you like reading,” he replies neutrally. “But eventually you will get bored of it and wished you played chess with me.”

An assassin for hire with a sense of humor…only Jack would find himself in this position.

“Come,” Kirill says when he notices Jack hasn’t moved. “I won’t bite.” He pulls out a chair and goes to sit, revealing an expertly set up chess board.

It’s old, perhaps a family heirloom. The pieces - onyx and white marble - are delicately carved with the smallest details while the board, worn from use and age, is comprised of two different types of wood, inlaid precisely and carefully.

Jack knows he’s being watched by Kirill; he can feel his eyes upon him. “This is yours.”

“My father gave it to me when I was a boy,” Kirill tells him with a note of pride in his voice. He leans against the chair, tracing his fingers over the edge of the board. “And my _deda_ gave it to him.”

He goes through his limited Russian vocabulary. “ _Deda_?”

“Grandfather,” Kirill supplies. “He taught me how to play and was very diligent with his lessons. And now I show you. Do you know how to play?”

Jack sits down across from him. “Not well,” he admits, earning a peculiar look from the other man. “I know how to play...”

“Ah well, strategy is key,” Kirill states. “And logic.”

He only nods.

“You are a smart man. This is what Pamela told me,” Kirill says as he makes the first move, sliding a piece to another square.

Jack follows suit, earning a raised eyebrow from his partner. “She said that?”

“ _Da_. Why? Do you think she lies?”

He shakes his head while watching Kirill debate his next move. “I think she was just being polite. If I was really all that smart, I wouldn’t have ended up like this.”

“Bad things happen to good people,” the other man tells him while he moves another piece, taking one of Jack’s rooks with it. “Or so the saying goes.”

“I guess,” Jack sighs, propping his chin up in his palm as his other hand moves one of his pieces.

Kirill watches him with great interest and uses his observations to dictate his next move. “You have your doubts. Rightfully so.”

“Didn’t you?” Jack asks, referring to the other man’s accident. “You plan your life carefully only to watch it fall apart without being able to stop it. I thought Cathy and I would have a life together - you know a house, kids, maybe a dog. Instead it turns out she was a sleeper agent sent to kill me. So yeah, I have my doubts, Kirill. I pissed off the wrong people, whoever they are, and now I’m paying the price for it.” He brutally knocks over one of the black pieces, sending it to the floor. “Your move.”

Kirill doesn’t so much as twitch; he contemplates his next move for a moment before sliding the piece over, lifting his eyes to signal Jack to go next. They play in silence for what it seems like hours to Jack while Kirill thoroughly destroys him.

“Do not blame yourself,” Kirill says after a while, “for what others set in motion. You are a victim of… _sud’ba_.”

Jack wrinkles his brow. “Fate?”

“Yes,” Kirill replies while making his next move. “Remember you did the right thing, Dr. Ryan.” He reaches for his chess piece. “And check mate.”

Jack blinks, lurching forward as Kirill lays down his king with a grin. “How?” he stammers, dumbstruck by the stealthy move. “How did I not see that?”

“You were distracted,” the other man says, still smiling. “And I have played since I was a boy.”

“I forgot that this is probably a national pastime,” Jack considers, earning a look of confusion from Kirill.

“National pastime?” he inquires, tilting his head. “I do not understand.”

Jack licks his lips in thought. “It’s a part of your culture,” he tries to explain. “Like baseball is in the States or hockey in Canada.”

Kirill scrunches his nose in understanding. “Oh! Chess is not a national pastime in Russia. Bandy.”

“Bandy?”

“ _Da_ ,” he says. “Bandy. I will show you sometime, yes?” He gathers up the chess pieces. “But now, I will show you why you lost.”

And he does.

It all boils down to patience, strategy, and logic. Jack always thought that he possessed these qualities, but as Kirill leans over him, pointing and explaining the game to him, Jack realizes that he is wrong.

It’s not surprising; Jack has been wrong about a lot of things.

“You are tired,” Kirill says, jolting him out of his own head. “We will continue the lesson later.”

Jack watches as he goes the put the chess board and its pieces away. Kirill does it in a neat, careful fashion, not the brute force he’d expect from this man. “Were you always a freelancer?”

“ _Nyet_. I was FSB. Not any more.”

Jack’s curiosity is piqued. “What happened? What made you leave?”

“I took a mission and it ended badly,” Kirill tells him, his expression darkening in remembrance. “Pamela found me in the hospital and offered me a deal. I took it because I was tired of doing bad things.”

“You mean things that the FSB ordered you to do?”

He shrugs. “It does not make a difference who ordered me,” Kirill explains, sighing heavily. “In the end, I still did them for money and they were bad.” He glances at Jack for a moment before going back to his task. “I do not like to talk about it.”

“Sorry,” Jack apologizes. “I didn’t mean…”

Kirill gives him a strange look. “I know.”

“You do?”

The other man nods. “I do,” he says as he pats Jack’s shoulder.

He follows his retreat until Kirill is gone and the door clicks shut.

 

* * *

 

Another week goes by before Pamela returns to the safe house, expecting Jack’s final answer.

She doesn’t have to say so, though it’s blatantly inferred when she strides into the living room with Tom Cronin on her heels. Kirill follows behind them, seeming neither concerned or worried about her visit. He hovers near the doorway, arms folded over his chest and silent as usual.

Jack closes the book in his hands, setting it down on the coffee table as Pamela takes a seat across from him. She stares at him for several quiet minutes before exhaling loudly through her nostrils and opening the briefcase next to her thighs.

She proceeds to pull a manila envelope out of it, though Pamela doesn’t give it to him. “This,” she begins to explain, “is your new identity if you choose to accept it. A badly decomposed body with your DNA will turn up at the appropriate time and you will be declared killed in action. The CIA will proclaim your demise as retribution for your role in taking down Viktor Cherevin and you will receive full honors when you’re buried.” Pamela sets the envelope on the table and slides it over to him. “Inside is everything you will need to start over, but it will be a simple life. Under the radar, no personal attachments.”

Jack swallows as his eyes fall upon the package. The information soaks over him, stinging very fiber of his being. As soon as the paper is torn open, he will have chosen a life with no friends, significant others, or family. He will be alone, but also alive and safe.

“And if I don’t want to accept it?” he finally asks.

“Is that a yes or a no, Dr. Ryan?” Pamela is no fool and she’s not taking chances. Something in her face softens when he shakes his head and the envelope disappears from where it came. “We will prepare you for your next assignment - finding out who ordered the hit. Kirill will act as your handler once you’ve been declared fit for duty. When he deems you ready, a scenario will be setup in which you are returned to our jurisdiction as a victim of kidnapping. A series of ransom demands have already been made while you were indisposed; anyone involved in the attempt on your life will be none the wiser when you do return.”

He shifts in his seat, nodding. “Seems like you’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble without having my answer.”

“Even _you_ have a pattern, Dr. Ryan,” Pamela tells him. A secretive smile appears on her lips again. “I already knew what you would decide even before you did.”

Jack follows her movements as she stands up and smoothes her hands over the fabric of her suit. As usual, her face betrays nothing and neither does Cronin’s.

Or Kirill’s for that matter.

“A doctor will be by at the end of the week,” Pamela announces. “Then we’ll begin.” She turns to leave.

“Director,” Jack calls out. She’s looking right at him. “Why are you giving me a choice?”

Her body moves, turning until they are facing each other. “There are many reasons, Dr. Ryan, but in the end it comes down to one thing: you haven’t had control over your life for longer than you’ve realized and you deserve to have it back.”

“Is this the part where you say that it’s my basic human right?” Jack deadpans.

Pamela rolls her eyes. “I’m not a motivational speaker,” she tells him. “I’m here to right a grievous wrong while ensuring the safety of my country.”

That isn’t the answer he was expecting, though if anything Pamela Landy is the definition of unexpected. She’s had years to hone the mask she wears when in the company of others, to keep her cards close to her chest.

Jack both fears and admires her.

“We’ll see what the doctor says,” he grumbles.

“We will,” Pamela says.

 

* * *

 

As promised, a doctor visits the safe house and Jack is declared fit for active duty.

The following day, Kirill comes to his room and beckons Jack to follow. He’s escorted to an office that nearly resembles Cherevin’s own in Moscow, though it lacks the distinct sleek black and chrome interior and murderous businessman.

Kirill notices Jack’s hesitation. “Come,” he says. “And sit.”

“I thought we were going to spar or something,” Jack admits as he follows orders and makes himself comfortable in a seat next to Kirill.

One of the large flat screen monitors flares to life, asking for a username and password which the other man types. “The ability to defend yourself is important, but so is knowledge,” Kirill says with a shrug.

A chill runs through Jack’s body as a file containing Cathy’s driver’s license photograph appears on screen. He shakes his head. “No.”

“No?”

Jack stands up despite his entire body trembling. “No,” he repeats, panicked. “I’m not… _no_.” He leaves the room, stumbling. Once he’s around the corner, Jack sits on the floor as he tries to breathe. It feels like a vice is tightening around his chest, pressing until he feels literally weighed down. Sweat forms at the edge of his hairline as his anxiety attack rages on. “It’s just a picture. She’s not even _alive_ ,” he whispers, closing his eyes.

“Even something as simple as a photograph can provoke a strong reaction,” Kirill tells him, suddenly appearing out of nowhere.

He listens to the other man as he sits down next to him. Jack expects a sharp reprimand or a lecture on facing his demons, but nothing comes. Instead, they wait together for the worst of his attack to pass.

“We can spar if you wish,” Kirill suggests after a while. “A room has been set up for drills. It even has a punching bag.”

He feels Kirill nudging him with his arm, jarring loose a rattle of laughter. “It does, huh?” Jack turns to him with a ghost of a smile.

“ _Da_ ,” Kirill replies, returning it. A pair of dimples form at the corners of his mouth, softening his usual expression. He seems younger like this, more carefree as he stands up and offers Jack his hand. “Come and I show you.”

He stares at the hand for a moment, taking in the strength running underneath Kirill’s skin. This man could kill him as easy as blinking and yet he’s saved Jack’s life twice now. After some moments of hesitation, he takes Kirill’s hand and allows himself to be pulled up.

They end up in a part of the safe house that Jack hasn’t ventured to in the time he’s been there. It’s clear from the moment the door opens that the room is intended to be used for workouts. An impressive home gym is laid out before Jack, including the promised punching bag. Just beyond a row of machines and a sliding glass door, lies a courtyard surrounded by a vine covered brick wall.

“It’s electrified,” Kirill says.

Jack blinks. “What is?”

“The wall,” the other man clarifies. He gives him an appraising look from under an arched brow. “But I think we are beyond that point, _da_?”

“I’d hope so,” Jack replies as he steps inside, running his hand over a treadmill. “Besides, I haven’t been able to scale something that high since I broke my back.” He notices the confusion crossing over Kirill’s face out of the corner of his eye. “The helicopter I was in was shot down during my tour in Afghanistan.”

Kirill nods, his expression unchanging. “I did not know. It must have been a painful recovery.”

“That’s one way to describe it,” Jack agrees with a shrug. He moves closer to the window until he’s standing right in front of it. Only double paned glass stands between him and the outside world. “And long. I thought it would never end until it did.”

In the window’s faint reflection, he makes out Kirill standing and watching him. “You are a fighter,” the other man states. He leans over to swipe something from a bench, his eyes never leaving his charge, and goes to Jack. “You do not give up easily, Dr. Ryan.”

“I think we’re past formalities, Kirill,” he says. “You _can_ call me Jack.”

It’s apparent that the other man is surprised by the request. “Jack,” he parrots, testing the name out on his tongue. “It’s less of a mouthful than Dr. Ryan.”

“I would hope so,” Jack replies, chuckling.

Kirill, serious as ever, reveals the objects he’s holding. It’s a roll of protective tape used by boxers. “This will protect your knuckles,” he explains as he motions for Jack. “Your hand.”

He gives one over, then the other, all while watching how Kirill clucks impatiently over the task. He fidgets with the pressure and tightness before glancing at Jack for approval. When he nods, Kirill goes to the next one. It’s strange to be touched in a way that isn’t clinical; to be handled like a human being.

“How long were you with the FSB before Pamela found you?” Jack asks.

“Long enough,” the other man replies as he tosses the tape away from them. “Too long.”

Jack winces in understanding. “I get that.”

“I know,” Kirill says. He gently pokes Jack’s sternum. “I see it; the fury within you. Until now, you haven’t had an outlet for it. It eats at you. If you learn how to control this, it will serve you well. Come.”

They go to the punching bag, where Jack is given a pair of gloves. He slips them on wordlessly while Kirill makes the proper adjustments to the bag. “Now what?” he asks.

“I study your form,” Kirill answers, gesturing towards the punching bag. “And we’ll go from there.”

With a nod, Jack approaches the seemingly harmless object and stares at it for a moment. He draws in a deep breath and readies himself for the first punch.

Jack strikes and hits the bag with everything he has; putting all of the turmoil and resentment behind his fist. It vibrates through his body when he goes for the second and third punch building until all he knows is the sound of gloves against vinyl. His vision filtered out all of his surroundings save for the punching bag swaying on its stand.

His emotions morph into something else entirely - anger and then rage. Jack’s movements become faster and filled with intent. It’s no longer an exercise or showing Kirill what he can do, but releasing the stress that’s been lodged inside of him. Jack punches harder and harder while he wordlessly shouts and screams.

He must sound like he’s lost his mind, and in a way, Jack has. The loss he’s felt twists uncomfortably in his stomach, loosening with each thud of his gloved hands.

It’s only when he’s on his knees and trying to catch his breath that Jack realizes he’s crying. Horrible, loud, and unrestrained sobs shake him to the core. Emotion doesn’t come easily for him - Jack would go as far as calling himself aloof at times - but there in the presence of a man he hardly knows, he’s able to let his guard down.

Kirill allows Jack the chance to truly understand the ramifications of his situation, only coming close to remove the gloves from his hands. Then he sits nearby and waits until Jack’s cries tamper off into hiccups. “Do you feel better?” he eventually asks.

Jack nods, his eyes never leaving the floor as he sniffles.

“Now we have a drink and discuss next steps,” Kirill says.

He gets up without prompting, wincing at the ache forming in his lower back. It’s nothing a hot shower and some stretching will cure. Kirill’s warm hand curls around his shoulder and leads him to the living room where he pours them both a drink.

“You look like a lamb going to slaughter,” Kirill mentions as he hands Jack a glass. “It’s just whiskey.”

Jack finds the barest hint of a smile on the other man’s face. “Thanks,” he replies. His voice is hoarse now, having been torn apart earlier.

They drink in silence; which Jack is grateful for. He needs time to process his outburst, as uncharacteristic as it is.

“I used to go running,” he mentions, “before all of this.” He lifts his eyes from his glass to Kirill’s face. Silence meets his statement as if the other man knows Jack doesn’t need interruptions or assurances. “Tom told me when I first started to find a hobby; something that Cathy wouldn’t want to do with me. For stress relief, he said.”

He remembers wondering what Tom meant at first. Jack was just an analyst working behind a desk; yes, it was for the CIA, but it wasn’t like he was throwing himself headlong into danger.

“Now I have nowhere to run to,” Jack says, ignoring how his voice cracks. He’s not going to tell himself it’s the burn of the whiskey; he knows what it is. It’s everything he’s been feeling, but hiding behind a brave face. “And if I did, I’d be a dead man walking.”

They finish their drinks and Kirill goes to refill them. It’s a pattern that goes on for some time, at least until Jack has the blush of alcohol upon his cheeks and there’s a relaxed glint in Kirill’s eyes. It’s evening by then and raining as it usually does.

“There are others way for you to relieve stress,” the other man tells him. He looks at Jack from over the rim of his glass and for a moment, he thinks Kirill is talking about sex. “If the punching bag helps, we’ll utilize it more often. Treadmills for running, if that’s what you desire.”

Jack realizes that in Kirill’s own strange way, he’s trying his best to help. “Okay,” he says.

“You don’t have to do this alone, Dr. Ry-,” Kirill stops himself, knitting his brows together as he remembers their earlier conversation. “ _Jack_.”

Later, when both of them have retired to their respective bedrooms, he mulls over Kirill’s words. It’s an offer that runs deeper than Pamela Landy’s. While she will give him the means and tools to seek out the source of the hit on his life, Kirill offers Jack companionship.

He would think it strange since Kirill doesn’t seem like the type of person to keep meaningful relationships, but if Jack’s learned anything it’s to never take someone at face value.

 

* * *

 

It’s not surprising that Jack begins to dream of Kirill now that their daily lives revolve around each other.

Most of them are nonsensical and forgettable. And then there are the ones that follow him back into the conscious world, nagging Jack when he least expects it. The dreams with Kirill straddling his body, running his hands over Jack as lips ghost his ear lobe. He can feel teeth against his jaw, finding the spot on his neck that makes him moan, and Kirill’s tongue tracing over his collarbone.

Kirill’s mouth always travels down to his sternum where he lingers. He dedicates time to planting open mouth kisses along Jack’s ribs, stomach, and navel where Kirill teases the trail of hair leading towards his cock. It sits heavy and full between his legs, waiting patiently for his attentions.

“Yes, please,” Jack murmurs; it’s habit. He draws his teeth over his bottom lip while Kirill teases the crest of his hip.

It starts out with Kirill never saying a word. Instead he takes Jack into his hand and gives his cock a tantalizing tug.

“Don’t stop,” he moans.

Kirill doesn’t.

Then are the times he does speak. It’s when Kirill comes out of the shadows like an apparition; all pale skin and dark features. Kirill wears the same solemn expression as he always does. Jack lies there hard and wanting, silently begging to be touched. “Is this better?” Kirill asks as he approaches the bed and sits upon the mattress.

“Yes,” Jack whispers. He watches Kirill remove his jacket before taking Jack’s cock in hand. He cries out at the sensation of calloused fingers against sensitive, throbbing flesh.

Kirill strokes him the way he likes it - a little on the dry side, a little rough, a little teasing. He works Jack into a frenzy all while quietly observing his charge. “Do you like that, Jack Ryan?”

Fingers rub over his cockhead, taking his precum with them, and pushing him closer to the brink. “God yes,” Jack groans.

“Do you like it when I make you wait for it?” Kirill asks. He’s suddenly leaning close to Jack’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “When you’re only given what I want you to have?”

Jack whines in agreement, squeezing his eyes shut. “ _Please_ , Kirill.”

“Please what?” Kirill’s hand squeezes at Jack’s length, massaging it harder and faster as pleasure begins to coil in his stomach. “What do you need Jack Ryan?”

He cries out, shaking his head. “I…I don’t know,” he admits breathlessly. Jack opens his eyes to find Kirill’s mouth dangerously close to his own. “Why are you here?”

“You want me where,” Kirill says cryptically. The tip of his tongue catches on Jack’s bottom lip. “You want me here always.”

The predatory words only build upon Jack’s impending climax, edging it closer and closer as he falls into a hazel void. Kirill closes the distance between them, pressing his lips against Jack’s. In the first moments their mouths touch, Jack cums.

He wakes to receding pleasure and sweat causing his clothing to stick uncomfortably to his skin while his softening erection sits wet between his thighs. While he hasn’t had a wet dream since he was a teenager, it’s not what bothers Jack.

It’s the tingling sensation of rough lips pressed against his own, like a phantom that creeps back into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

Jack has been attracted to men before.

Not many, but enough that the very idea of wanting Kirill doesn’t send Jack into a tailspin. He’s equal opportunity when it comes to partners, though his preference has predominantly leaned towards women. There are even fewer to which Jack has been sexually attracted; three men that have actually made him so fucking idiotic with desire that he reverts back to his sixteen-year-old self stumbling helplessly through his first date.

The first two encounters were in college; brief, but memorable flings that set the tone for Jack’s aesthetic preferences.

And then there was a comrade in the Marines, a lieutenant colonel so beautiful that it sometimes hurt to even look at him. Tall and infuriatingly articulate, Jack remembered the giddiness in his chest when he was first introduced to Avery Wallace and they shook hands. He was soft spoken and slow to smile with whiskey colored eyes and dark hair. When Jack was able to amuse him, dimples would form at the corner of Avery’s mouth and made him even more endearing.

Sex with him had been fiery and desperate; their lives were constantly in danger after all. A clash of teeth and finger shaped bruises, too little lube and never enough time.

Avery came to see Jack several days after the helicopter crash, looking haunted and grey as he approached the hospital bed. By then, Jack was already drugged to the point of catatonia; it was either that or screaming himself into unconsciousness from the pain.

The visit had been short - after all, Avery had his duties to fulfill - but he did risk a gentle kiss to his temple. It was that moment, within a series of them, that Jack remembers most; the quick brush of Avery’s lips against his skin and the tingle it left behind.

“I expect you get better, Ryan,” he whispered into Jack’s ear. “We have an awful lot of trouble to cause, you know. I’ll see you soon.”

Jack found out months later that Avery had been killed in a helicopter crash, nearly identical to the one he survived. He shed some tears and moved on, remembering him from time to time, when Jack wasn’t thinking of anything else.

Looking back, he realizes Avery had set the tone for Jack’s free fall into Kirill.

Because that’s what it is; the seedlings of attraction growing with each passing day. He doesn’t try to tell himself it’s their close quarters or transference. Kirill is attractive - anyone with a working set of eyes can see that - and there are moments when his stone facade melts away to reveal the person underneath.

Warm, dry humored, and fiercely loyal. Also unendingly patient.

They spar each other in the workout room where Kirill adjusts Jack’s stances and carefully demonstrates each move until he deems his pupil has gotten it right. He touches Jack without a second though, rough hands grasping each limb and modifying their position. Sometimes Kirill will squint, observing Jack like he’s a statue in a museum before nodding his head in approval with a curt, “ _Da_.”

It goes on for hours until one of them realizes it’s late and then they hesitantly part ways.

Jack begins to notice Kirill’s hands lingering longer than they should or his mouth hovering near his ear, making his breath hitch and blood burn. He wonders if it’s wishful thinking because Jack’s been deprived of a genuine relationship for longer than he cares to think about.

At night when he’s alone, he thinks of Kirill’s hands doing other things to his body. Pinning him down to the mattress, running his mouth, and then his hands for good measure, over every inch of Jack body, taking his time while he fingers Jack open. Kirill whispering filthy things into his ear, telling Jack everything he wants to do him and that he’ll make him beg for it.

Or how Kirill would come upon him in the bathroom, sneaking up behind Jack while he strokes his cock under the steady pour of water. Wordlessly he’ll kneel down and spread Jack’s cheeks apart before running his tongue over the puckered hole he finds there.

Kirill will eat him out until Jack’s legs are trembling and his cum splatters against the tile. The small space will have grown too hot for them. It won’t matter; they’ll be too busy pawing at each other before Kirill is thrusting deep inside of Jack and only finishes when the water’s run cold.

Little scenarios that Jack dreams up while he strokes himself to an uneasy completion while Kirill’s name is dancing on his tongue.

He wants Kirill, plain and simple. He wants the sting of teeth gnashing against his skin, lips crushed into his own, the sound of combined breathing. Jack wants to taste Kirill on his tongue, dig his fingernails into his skin, take Kirill into his body until he can’t even think anymore.

It doesn’t need to be something the other man can’t give and Jack is fine with that. He just needs to feel.

How to go about getting it, on the other hand, is the real mystery.

 

* * *

 

Like everything else he’s done, Jack goes about analyzing Kirill in order to solve the puzzle he so clearly is.

At first, the only thing Jack discovers is that Kirill is a creature of habit. It only makes sense; he is former FSB. He’s used to be being told when, where, and how; this behavior is ingrained into the very core of Kirill’s being. For example, he takes his coffee black and doesn’t speak during breakfast.

He goes to the work out room when Kirill is certain Jack will be there and exercises with him. Kirill begins to take to calling him _Yagnenok_ , though he never explains what it means even when asked.

He likes to hum under his breath when he doesn’t think anyone can hear him. Kirill wakes up between the hours of seven and nine in the morning and always - _always_ \- retires at precisely thirty minutes before eleven.

It still doesn’t answer Jack’s questions of why he catches Kirill staring at him from across the room, his eyes glinting at him in curiosity.

Perhaps he’s learned something new about him through Pamela; another page to an ever growing file Jack will never see.

Whatever it is, Kirill keeps his secrets close.

 

* * *

 

Except when he doesn’t.

Kirill manages to corner Jack after he’s slung his sweatpants over his hips and is brushing his teeth. He happens to look at his reflection in the mirror along with the other man’s which results in him nearly choking and giving himself a heart attack. Sputtering, Jack hastily removes the toothpaste foam from his mouth.

“Don’t you knock?” he asks, chuckling. Jack cleans up the mess he’s made of the bathroom vanity because when all’s said and done, he’s only a guest in the safe house.

As he’s mopping up puddles of water from the marble countertop, Jack realizes that Kirill hasn’t replied. With a quick glance, he finds Kirill’s attention is elsewhere.

Not just anywhere, but between the dip of his shoulder blades down to his tailbone. The inches of a serpentine scar tissue covering pillars of titanium rods and screws meant to keep his back from falling apart. Raised skin a shade or two lighter than the rest of his body, the ugliest part of himself that only Cathy and his doctors saw. A decade later and its existence still makes Jack want to hide it under a shirt. Just because he knows it’s there doesn’t mean the rest of the world needs to.

Kirill is now privy to his secret.

He takes a step over the threshold and bridges the space between them, until Jack has nowhere to go. All he can do is stare into Kirill’s mercurial eyes and wait to see what happens. It’s a heady sensation, to be at another’s mercy. Jack holds his breath in anticipation of what will happen next. Will the other man think he is a broken thing and not worth saving? Will he just stare like anyone else would?

Kirill’s hand goes to his bare shoulder, rotating him until Jack is fully facing the mirror. The warm touch of him sends a shiver through Jack’s body. Kirill’s hands have been on him from the very beginning - saving his life, helping him to his feet, teaching him technique, passing a glass.

Such benign little gestures with no intimacy.

Jack gasps at the first caress of Kirill’s fingers on the scar, jerking forward into the counter like a scared animal. He closes his eyes, not wanting to see the other man’s reaction or even his own.

Kirill has the hands of a killer and yet, the way he strokes over the puckered skin is gentle. He runs his fingers over it like it has a story to tell, that underneath the fibrous tissue lies Jack’s innermost secrets and can only be deciphered by those who know the language.

He bites his lip when Kirill’s fingers reach the bottom; anything to take his attention away from the way his cock fills inside of his sweatpants. It begins to ache as Kirill rubs the base of the scar before pulling his hand away. Jack lets out a shaky breath and finally dares to open his eyes. They sting and he’s too afraid to look in the mirror - he doesn’t want to see pity on Kirill’s face. They’re beyond that now.

Instead he drifts closer to Jack and holding his hips steady as Kirill’s breath dusts over his skin. Fingers dip below the waistband of his sweatpants, touching and caressing while the other man’s mouth hovers inches above Jack’s shoulder.

Kirill presses his lips against the beginning of Jack’s scar so lightly that he wonders if he’s imagining things until the scrape of teeth against it sends a shudder through him. His head falls forward, hanging between his shoulders while the rest of Jack grinds into Kirill, meeting the other man’s erection with his ass cheeks.

He expects Kirill to push him away, not the feel of his hands delving deeper into his clothing. Fingertips brush against the tip of his erection, smearing the precum that’s gathered there. Kirill makes a pleased growl at the nape of his neck, working the sweatpants down Jack’s hips.

In a span of heart beats, Jack steps out of the puddle of clothing around his ankles to face Kirill and brings their mouths together. He wants to taste him and feel his tongue against his own. To know how the other man kisses and find out what he likes.

He works his way between Kirill’s lips, gently flicking his tongue until the other man allows him entry. Groaning, Jack begins his exploration until they’re both panting heavily and have to take a moment to breathe. Kirill removes his shirt, inching the worn fabric over the planes of his stomach and the rest of him before dropping it on the floor. He undoes his belt and shucks off his pants, stepping out of them as his own hard cock is freed from its confines.

They meet somewhere in the middle; a tidal wave of frantic kisses and touching. Both men are consumed by one another as Jack finds himself against the countertop. Kirill takes them both in hand, stroking their lengths against each other.

A heady, needy whine explodes from Jack’s throat as he clutches onto the other man’s broad shoulders. He’s certain his fingertips will leave bruises, but those thoughts are banished by the friction of their bodies meeting. The slow burn of his orgasm gains momentum; it’s been awhile since someone else touched him and nearly a decade since Jack’s been with another man. Too long since his mouth has been debauched with abandon and even longer since his entire body has felt like he’s on fire.

He moans into Kirill’s mouth, bucking with the other man’s ministrations. His trembling limbs are covered in a sheen of sweat, aching for that final push to the end. Jack breaks away, gasping. “I’m close,” he whispers in warning.

It’s met with the feeling of Kirill’s hand speeding up between them, working and working until the tightness in Jack’s groin becomes too much and then he explodes.

He only hears indiscernible words, shredding and wavering as both of them shudder through their orgasms. The familiar sensation of body heat, smell of sweat and semen, and the dwindling effects of pleasure follow. Jack all but buries his face into the curve of Kirill’s shoulder, feeling the way the other man’s chest rises and falls.

How long they stand there, wading through the aftershocks, Jack has no idea. It’s when Kirill’s hand slips from their softening lengths Jack comes back to himself. His heart still hammers against his chest, but he feels lighter for it.

Like something has been given back to him - pleasure, trust, intimacy. It’s like a piece of himself falling back into place without the fear of shattering.

Kirill runs a finger through the mess they’ve made of themselves and brings it to his mouth to taste their blended spill, humming in appreciation. It makes Jack’s spent cock twitch; he wants to feel those lips on him and see what desire they can drive out of him.

And most importantly, he wants the opportunity to explore Kirill’s body more thoroughly. To hear him breathe Jack’s name, to taste the sweat on his skin, and to find all the places that make him cry out.

“ _Yagnenok_ ,” Kirill murmurs as he cups Jack’s cheek in his palm. “I want to ask you something and you must promise me to answer it honestly. _Da_?”

As his eyes drift shut, he swallows. The post-orgasmic haze is settling into his bones, leaving him warm and sated and he would do anything Kirill asks.

“Come to bed with me,” the other man says. “Come to bed with me, Jack Ryan.”

Jack nods. “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

They spend the better part of the day in bed.

Not that Jack’s complaining; he gets to enjoy discovering what makes Kirill moan. Using his hands and mouth, he explores the expanse of the other man’s body and watches as muscles flex and tighten under Kirill’s skin. He finds constellations of freckles dusting his shoulders and down the column of his spine, noting the various colors and tracing over them with his tongue.

Kirill is the embodiment of the sea before a storm. Calm and unassuming, driftless until he’s inspired.

The storm is the way he fucks - all of his actions done with thought, a touch of elegance, and always with results. Kirill begins by taking Jack apart; fingering him open so slowly that he might be crying or it could be perspiration wetting his cheeks; he doesn’t know anymore. Each whimper or plea is met with teeth grazing over his skin, caught by Kirill’s tongue for good measure. He leaves finger and mouth shaped bruises into Jack’s torso, shoulders, and hips.

He finds himself begging and cursing, then cursing some more while Kirill has his wicked way with him. Jack goes utterly silent once Kirill begins to prepare him, unable to stop shuddering or clenching his fists. It’s the part he likes the best - the breathtaking burn and sensation of being filled. A decade may have passed since Avery, but Jack’s body remembers it well.

When Kirill deems him truly debauched, he takes Jack in a single thrust that makes each nerve sing in pleasure and plays him masterfully until fingernail scratches adorn his back and Jack is cumming around his cock. Kirill keeps going, fucking Jack through a third orgasm before finding his second.

“Are you awake?” Kirill asks. His fingers are running along Jack’s scar as they lie in bed.

It’s late now, nearly midnight and Jack’s body protests when he nods. The burn settling into his lower body is a pleasant one; he hasn’t been used so thoroughly in ages - fucked hard enough that he’ll feel it for days.

“You enjoy sex with men,” Kirill states.

“So do you,” Jack points out, unashamed. He turns over onto his back and grins up at him.

Kirill nods at this, even going as far as to shrug. “I wasn’t sure,” he says, dipping his head down to blow on one of Jack’s nipples. “About you.”

“You should have asked.” He watches Kirill as his tongue slips out from between his lips and teases the nub with light strokes. It tickles, but he enjoys the show. “Is that why you were always looking at me? Were you trying to figure me out?”

A pair of hazel eyes peer up at him from beneath a dark fan of lashes. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s because I like looking at you.”

“Is that right?” Jack wonders aloud. He touches Kirill’s sculpted cheekbones with his thumb, running the edge from one side to the other. “It’s been awhile since I’ve slept with a man because of…” His voice trails off, not wanting to ruin the moment by saying her name.

Kirill tilts his head up and catches Jack’s thumb with his lips. “When was the last time?”

“I was in the Marines; he was a lieutenant colonel.” His eyes follow the other man’s mouth, taking in the scrape of teeth over the pad of his finger. “He was killed not long after my accident.”

“Did you love him?”

The question surprises Jack, mostly because he never thought about it before. He certainly enjoyed Avery’s company as well as the limited privacy they were able to snatch. Jack didn’t think about the what-ifs beyond that, though he now wonders, if Avery had lived, how different his life would be. Would they be together openly or was it just a dalliance of convenience.

“There wasn’t time to,” he finally answers. Jack sighs and adjusts his head against the pillows. “Looking back, I definitely had a type.”

This earns a pleased grin from Kirill. “Tell me about this type,” he murmurs, surging forward to kiss Jack.

“A lot like you,” Jack admits between kisses. “Tall, dark, slow to smile.”

Kirill pulls a face. “I smile.”

“ _Rarely_.”

Kirill rolls his eyes and mutters something in Russian much to Jack’s amusement. The other man settles upon his chest, pressing his cheek against Jack’s sternum and for a while, they lie there in silence. Jack runs his fingers through Kirill’s hair, lazily petting each strand.

“I had a lover once,” Kirill says. “It was a long time ago; he’s gone now. I don’t know where.”

Jack pauses. “You guys broke up?”

“ _Da_ and _nyet_. He was an asset as well; stationed in Paris. We met by accident. Our handlers assigned us to the same target,” Kirill explains. He moves to stare off into the distance. “We were together for two years before one of his missions went badly. He had a _travma golovnogo mozga_.”

Raising a brow, Jack cycles through his knowledge of Russian to decipher what Kirill is saying. “Traumatic?” he questions.

Kirill clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “ _Glava_ ,” he says as he lifts his head off Jack’s chest and points to it.

“Oh, you mean a head injury,” Jack says.

“Da,” Kirill replies, nodding. “He does not remember me. The last time I saw him was in a tunnel and he had a gun pointed at my skull. He didn’t shoot and he left.” He moves over Jack so that they’re staring right into each other’s eyes. “It was long ago. Enough about him.”

Jack takes the hint as Kirill reaches for him, his dark eyes glittering with promise.

 

* * *

 

The change in their relationship begins with a solemn promise from Jack.

“There isn’t much I can give you,” he tells Kirill one evening while they’re nursing glasses of whiskey on the couch, “but you can have what’s left.”

Kirill nods after thinking about what Jack is offering. It’s not a lot, but he knows what this is like. To have stability before it’s violently torn away and you’re left with nothing. “I understand, _Yagnenok_ ,” he says. He rests his arm over the back of the couch, tapping the glass against it while he reaches for Jack’s hair. It’s grown out from his usual buzz cut and has a habit of flopping over his brows. Kirill ruffles it, then soothes the strands back. “Is there anything you need from me?”

“Just…don’t lie to me,” Jack whispers. “Always tell me the truth.”

Lips touch his brow, lingering there until Kirill decides to adjust their positions. Jack ends up leaning into the other man’s chest, safely nestled there. “Of course,” Kirill assures, pressing his mouth into Jack’s hairline. “Lies are for cowards.”

“Are you going to tell me what _Yagnenok_ means?” Jack asks.

“ _Nyet_ ,” Kirill answers almost immediately, causing Jack to dissolve into helpless laughter.

So they build upon the foundations of sex and truths. It’s done with certainty on Kirill’s part and hesitation on Jack’s; unfamiliar for the latter. He walks into it trying not to compare Kirill to Cathy and stops himself when he feels her betrayal threatening to consume him.

Kirill notices; he always does. He guides Jack, urging him to keep things simple and without commitment.

They have sex and they talk. They do things together - cooking, working out - and they also separate to give each other space. Sometimes they sleep in a tangle of limbs, other times each on their own side of the bed.

Pacing; move or develop (something) at a particular rate or speed. That’s what Kirill is having them do. Instead of flinging themselves over the edge, they fall slowly, carefully.

And towards the end of Jack’s time in Minsk, all at once.

Kirill comes to him one morning with a cell phone in hand. “Landy called,” he says. “You’re to return.”

He’s genuinely surprised upon hearing this. “When?” Jack asks.

“End of the week,” Kirill replies.

Only two days until they’re torn apart.

The tears are immediate and fall down Jack’s cheeks. “I’m not ready,” he admits.

“Neither am I,” his lover says, cupping his face. Kirill leans in to kiss Jack’s eyelids, followed by the tip of his nose and the center of his forehead.

Kirill goes to Jack’s lips, stroking it with his fingers before joining their mouths together. It’s like coming home after a long day; to comfort and familiarity. To the gentle press of tongues and the sweetness of a lover that no one else gets to have.

They make love in Kirill’s bed that night, in the quiet of the safe house with the moonlight spilling across their bodies. It’s slow and gentle filled with drawn out pleasure, whispered endearments, and kissing until neither of them want to break away.

“I won’t be here when they take you,” Kirill explains. He’s tracing nonsensical lines on Jack’s skin as they lie in bed. Jack drapes himself across his lover’s chest, pressing his ear against the steady beat of his heart. “Pamela wants your terror to be genuine.”

He closes his eyes, shivering. “What will happen next?” Jack asks.

“A dose of PKCzeta will be administered en route to the location where the recovery team will find you. Drug-induced amnesia; to ensure you won’t slip up,” Kirill continues, tightening his hold on Jack’s body.

Jack nods as the most important question of all claws at his tongue. “What about you?”

“I’m assigned to the task force sent to find you,” his lover answers, allowing Jack to breathe a sigh of relief even if it’s a small one. “Under an alias, but once you are found I will not leave your side, _Yagnenok_. This I promise.”

“What if I don’t remember you when I wake up?”

They look at each other, fear in their eyes. “I don’t think you’ll allow yourself to forget me so easily,” Kirill tells him.

 

* * *

 

The morning of his return to official CIA custody is the first time he finds the cracks in Kirill’s unshakeable exterior.

They wake up to a room taut with anxiety; it’s thick in the air around them and in the way each man moves. Jack feels as if he’ll break at any moment, shattering into pieces for someone else to pick up. That he’ll turn into a weeping mess until his tears run dry, leaving him weak and brittle.

That he won’t be able to recover and will return to the bleak state of mind he had when he attempted to take his own life.

Kirill fairs no better; it shows in every iota of him. His face is pale with fear and guilt and it knots at Jack’s insides. He holds Jack for just a bit longer, kissing everywhere his mouth can reach before forcing himself to get ready to leave.

Jack goes to his room and begins to sob when he opens the dresser drawer. He spends a good deal of time holding himself upright, until he’s able to compose himself. He doesn’t want to leave the reassurance Kirill provides just by being there or even risk never seeing him again.

“Will she separate us?” he had asked Kirill.

“ _Nyet_ ,” the other man answered. “She knows about us.”

Pamela Landy makes it her business to know everything, even before anyone else does. Why Jack is surprised to hear this is beyond him. The way she accepts their relationship is without question and consequence; Pamela is content to let them be so long as it doesn’t jeopardize the task at hand.

“Jack,” Kirill calls from the doorway. He’s dressed as if he was running errands, all very plain clothes and unassuming. It’s the wetness in his eyes that gives him away.

He rushes to Kirill, throwing his arms around him and crying into his shoulder. The scent of him - of amber and honey - embraces Jack like an old lover. “I don’t want to do this,” he whimpers, his voice muffled by the fabric of Kirill’s jacket. “Please don’t make me do this.”

“It’s already in motion. We have to see it through,” Kirill tells him with a trembling voice. They press their foreheads together, scrambling for what little time they have left. “No matter what happens, remember I love you, Jack Ryan. Remember that; don’t lose faith in it.”

Jack gasps, choking down his sorrow upon hearing Kirill declare his feelings for the first time. Elated and frantic, he nods feverishly. “I love you, too.”

Cool air suddenly hits the area where Kirill’s forehead used to be, replaced by a kiss and even that’s gone too. He can’t bring himself to open his eyes as he listens to his lover’s retreating footsteps and the front door opening, then closing.

The rest of it happens in phases: the task force storming the quiet safe house and taking custody of him, his useless struggles against them triggered by the memories of Moscow and Paris, the sting of a needle penetrating his skin and the cold push that follows, how everything slows down.

Jack’s awareness wanes as the drug takes hold of his facilities and even those become nothing; just the emptiness of forgotten memories.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRE IS BACK FROM NANOWRIMO WITH A WHOPPING 51K WORDS!!! 
> 
> (Can't you tell I'm proud? I'm _super effing_ proud!!!!)

When cognizance comes back to him, it’s splintered at best.

There are the sounds of voices, medical equipment, and dripping liquid fading in and out like receding waves. It filters through when he’s the most alert, but even that isn’t for very long. He doesn’t remember his name for a while; others whisper it when they refer to him, but it’s not enough for it to stick to memory. It doesn’t matter because he feels weighed down by an unknown force and he wants to sleep.

Whoever is caring for him allows this - the team of doctors and nurses, as well as the dark-haired man with an Eastern European accent. The one who looks at him with concern and keeps a constant vigil by his bedside. This man who’s there when he wakes from an already forgotten nightmare and soothes him back to sleep or watches him as he flickers in and out of consciousness.

He has no memory of who this man is, but his steadfast presence is reassuring and comforting.

As his body grows stronger, his memories return. They’re out of order, but come in short succession, rapidly remaking their home inside of his head. Eventually, he remembers his name and his preference to be called Jack and the reasons behind why he’s found himself in his current predicament.

And he remembers Kirill.

“What happened?” Jack questions slowly. His head feels detached from the rest of his body and words are slow to come. It’s the narcotics he’s been given, to relieve the pain from injuries he doesn’t recall getting.

Kirill pulls his chair up to Jack’s bedside. He’s close enough to touch him, but doing that would be too risky. They are supposedly strangers. “You fought your captors,” he says with a hint of a smile.

It explains the puffiness of his bottom lip where a cut is healing as well as the scratches and bruises adorning his body. Despite the measures taken to ensure Jack coming out of the so-called rescue unscathed, there’s always room for error. It’s not as bad as it could have been, but even still, he can’t imagine Pamela Landy being particularly pleased.

From there, Kirill fills him in on the preceding events. He learns of his rescue in rural Belarus where the team found him in chains, naked and hypothermic. Once Jack had been stabilized at a military hospital, he was flown back to Washington, DC to recover at Walter Reed.

“Jack!” Thomas Harper exclaims from the doorway. Wind-blown and jet lagged, his mentor is the perfect picture of the word relief when he turns to him. Tom’s shoulders slump with it as he visibly sighs before coming into the room. Without a word, he dumps his jacket onto the end of the bed and wraps his arms around Jack. “Welcome back, kid,” he finally says when they’ve pulled apart. Tom begins to inspect the damage done to his protégé, frowning unhappily. “I would ask what the hell happened, but…”

Jack snorts. “Apparently I put up a fight,” he mentions, glancing at Kirill.

Tom follows and immediately extends his hand towards Kirill, who takes it. While most have treated the other man with a mixture of awe and fright, Kirill’s presence doesn’t affect Tom. “Tom Harper,” he says, introducing himself. “I heard you’re the reason why we got him back.”

“Sasha Bogdanov,” Kirill replies, using an alias he told Jack that he established many years ago. “There are many of us who were responsible for Dr. Ryan’s safe return.”

His humbleness amuses Tom, showing in the smile lines around his eyes. “Well you have my sincerest thanks, Mr. Bogdanov.”

Kirill nods and politely excuses himself, allowing Jack and Tom to have some privacy. Jack knows his lover doesn’t go far - just beyond the door to the bench outside of the hospital room.

Once he disappears, Tom’s demeanor takes on a note of seriousness. His jovial smile melts into a defeated grimace as he takes a seat in Kirill’s chair. Tom buries his face into his palms, filling the room with muffled curses.

Jack, for his part, doesn’t interrupt. He just watches the situation wash over Tom, trying not to imagine the long months where his mentor was using every resource and favor available to him to bring Jack home. It’s just like Tom to go to the ends of the earth to make something right and thinking about it makes Jack feel as guilty as hell.

Tom’s hands fall from to his lap; in those minutes, he’s aged years. “I let you down,” is the first thing he says.

“Tom, no -”

He shakes his head. “I did, kiddo,” Tom insists. He pulls the chair closer and looks Jack straight in the eye. “I told you that you and Cathy would be protected, that _none_ of this would touch you, and it did.” Tom pauses as his voice trembles at the mention of Jack’s wife. “That poor woman.”

Jack inhales deeply and closes his eyes on his exhale. It gives him the appearance of grief so consuming, he’s numb with it. “You didn’t know.”

“I’ve done this long enough that I should have seen this coming,” Tom states. He reaches for Jack’s blanket covered knee and gives it a comforting squeeze. “You never deserved this, Jack. I am so sorry.”

He presses his lips together, only nodding his reply. More than anything in that moment, Jack wants to tell Tom of the charade. There is the possibility that even someone - someone like Tom, whom he trusts with his life - could be responsible for the hit. It keeps Jack from talking; he has Kirill for that, besides.

“That Bogdanov guy is a character, isn’t he?” Jack comments, eager to change the subject.

“Not much of a people’s person,” Tom replies, craning his head towards the door. When he turns back, he lowers his voice. “I heard you’ve taken quite a shine to him.”

Jack tries to be nonchalant about it, only offering a shrug. “He saved my life.”

While the words are true, there’s so much more to be said about Kirill. He could have easily let Jack flounder, but he didn’t. Kirill’s gently guided him through each day, allowing Jack to slowly rebuild the foundations of his shaken psyche.

He can’t tell anyone this, anyone except Kirill. Their surroundings aren’t secure enough, so it will wait until they are back in New York.

“That he did,” his mentor agrees, offering a comforting grin. He slaps his hands on his thighs, a sign of Tom getting down to business. “Maybe I should see if his superiors would be willing to loan him out to us.”

 

* * *

 

After a week under their care, the doctors at Walter Reed give Jack the all clear to return to New York City.

Under the concealment of a cold DC evening, he boards a private jet with both Tom and Kirill in tow. It had taken Tom several days to negotiate Kirill’s assignment with his superiors, a group of nameless folks that Jack has no knowledge of. A half dozen CIA agents accompany them on the short flight, acknowledging Jack with only a nod of their heads.

He occupies a window seat, preferring to keep to himself as the team escorting him home does their final checks before departure. Staring out the window, Jack watches the sun fading over the horizon. It’s going to be strange going home after all these months.

The prospect of it had been a welcome relief, at first, but now it feels empty and not very much like home at all. It’s not the safe house tucked away in Minsk, nor the rooms he fell in love with Kirill. It’s foreign now.

“Jack?” asks Tom. He’s standing at the end of the aisle, holding his briefcase with his jacket folded over it. A fatherly smile appears when Jack turns to him. “Do you need anything? Water? Vodka rocks? A piece of toast?”

He chuckles, remembering his mentor’s fondness for _Arrested Development_. “I’m fine,” Jack says, slumping into his seat. “Are they almost done?”

“Mr. Bogdanov is being thorough,” the other man answers. “You must be happy to finally get to sleep in your own bed soon.”

Jack shrugs, absently picking at the armrest. “Anything is better than a cold floor,” he says. He offers Tom a tired grin. “I just need…familiar surroundings.”

“Understandably,” Tom replies, his eyes drifting towards the front of the jet. “Your bodyguard is here.” He sets his things down on the seat across from Jack. “Just a moment, kid.”

He had been apprehensive about returning to the apartment he shared with Cathy; it was now tainted with his final memories of her. Kirill was the one who convinced Jack to go back, reminding him it was important to keep up the appearance of a man in mourning.

“I want her things gone,” Jack told him, finally relenting on that condition. “I don’t want to see them.”

Kirill sighed, nodding, and put in the request with Tom, explaining that seeing them would be too painful for Jack. His mentor bought it and it wasn’t spoken of again.

Eventually Jack is joined by Tom and Kirill, who sit with him during the two-hour flight. It’s spent in relative silence; Tom spends some of the time on jet’s phone with the CIA’s public relations team while Kirill reads through a file stored on a tablet.

Jack dozes off with his forehead pressed against the window, only waking up as the plane touches down. His homecoming is under a cloud of secrecy; Jack is quickly taken from the jet to an unmarked car. A caravan follows him and Kirill during the drive back to Jack’s Manhattan apartment.

“Have you been to New York before?” he asks Kirill.

His lover nods. “Many times,” Kirill answers.

“Business or pleasure?”

“Both,” the other man says, staring out into the night. “It’s easy to do here.”

Jack chuckles in agreement. “I guess so.” He tilts his head against the seat and closes his eyes, releasing a sigh. All he wants is to lie down and just be without a swarm of people constantly hovering around him.

“We’ll be there soon,” Kirill assures as if he’s read Jack’s mind.

He smiles in reply. As soon as he and Kirill are behind the door of his apartment, Jack will be able to hold him in his arms. He doesn’t need or want sex right now; he just wants Kirill. He wants the comfort of him being there and everything it entails.

When they finally arrive at his building, Kirill tells him to wait with Tom while he and the team do a walk through. It’s overwhelming to be so close to freedom and yet, Jack dreads it.

“Kid,” Tom calls, gently nudging him. Under the street lamp, he can see Tom’s concerned expression. “This is procedure, but I also feel it’s necessary. I want you to talk to someone once you’ve settled in. It would do you some good instead of compartmentalizing what happened.”

Jack swallows and lifts his gaze towards the windows of his apartment. The lights are on, probably for the first time in months, and silhouettes of CIA agents move about. He knows that Tom’s offer comes from a genuine place, but it’s also a hurdle he has to overcome in order to be allowed back on active duty. “Okay,” he whispers.

“You’re not alone in this,” Tom adds.

Kirill appears on the sidewalk before Jack can reply. He gives him and Tom a curt nod, indicating that the apartment checked out. Kirill and Tom trade pleasantries before he goes to retrieve his bag from the car, allowing Jack to say goodbye.

“I’ll call you in a few days,” his mentor says, giving him a hug. “We can go to lunch and discuss next steps, if you’re up to it.”

Jack nods as they pull apart. “That would be nice.”

“If you need anything,” Tom mentions, holding up his cell phone. He gives them a wave and ventures back to the car waiting to take him home.

Kirill leads Jack up to the apartment with a hand on his shoulder. The warmth of the other man’s touch soothes the knot of anxiety in Jack’s stomach. Kirill doesn’t say anything about the oblivious trembling of his body nor does he try to coach him into deep, steady breaths. He knows just how frightening these first steps into Jack’s old life are and allows him to feel it.

Once they’re on the other side of the door, that’s when the severity of the situation hits him. Panic coils itself tightly around Jack’s lungs, leaving him gasping for breath. He doesn’t make it two steps before he’s on his hands and knees with his heart hammering against his ribs.

“ _Yagnenok_ ,” Kirill intones.

Jack crawls to him, burrowing himself into Kirill’s broad chest as ragged sobs come. Hyperventilation is dangerously close until Kirill’s arms encompass him and his whispers are a constant in Jack’s ears. Hands card themselves through his hair, gently brushing it away from his damp cheeks.

Time goes on, unaffected by what’s transpiring inside of the apartment. A car horn honks for longer than necessary and somewhere a baby cries.

“Do you want me to make arrangements for us to stay in a hotel?” Kirill asks. His lips move over Jack’s hairline, tickling the skin they come into contact with.

He shudders. “I don’t know,” Jack admits, voice still saturated with tears. He feels them falling down his face and disappearing into the fabric of Kirill’s jacket. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“I will stay with you,” Kirill assures. “No matter where we are, I am right here.”

Jack nods into his chest. “Can you just talk to me for a while? About anything? I don’t care. I just need…”

“ _Da_ ,” the other man says. “I can tell you why I call you _yagnenok_. You keep asking and I never tell you because I like the way you _khmurit’sya_. It’s very funny.” Kirill’s hand rubs up and down his back. “It means little lamb.”

Jack manages a snort of laughter. “Little lamb?” he repeats. “Really? That’s what you’ve been calling me this entire time?”

“ _Da._ I like it,” Kirill replies with a shrug. “The first weeks we were in Minsk; you were weak like a lamb.” He nuzzles Jack’s face, chuckling softly into his neck. “And then after, you looked like I was about to snap your neck. That was before.”

Before they fell in love; Kirill doesn’t have to say it. Jack recalls that awkward phase of their relationship and the trepidation on both their parts.

“Thank you,” Jack whispers, his body beginning to relax.

Kirill’s lips are warm and soft on his cheek where he kisses him. “ _Pozhaluysta_.”

 

* * *

 

Sex is the furthest thing from Jack’s mind during his first night back at his apartment.

He doesn’t want it, and neither does Kirill; there’s too much to think about and too much to grow accustomed to once again.

They retire to the bedroom where they lie in the bed Jack used to share with Cathy, bodies covered by linens she picked out. Kirill lets Jack set the pace, only going to hold him when Jack moves across the mattress and tucks his head under Kirill’s chin. He sighs at the weight of his lover’s arms on his waist, fingers massaging the skin left uncovered by Jack’s t-shirt.

There’s safety between them when they’re like this - quiet and listening to the white noise of their surroundings until sleep comes.

The next morning, they go food shopping, as there’s only water from the sink and some canned goods that should probably be thrown out. He and Kirill stalk up and down the aisles, refreshing what’s needed. Jack wonders what it will be like once this mess is over and he’s able to show affection to Kirill without risking their cover.

And without startling himself whenever a stranger comes within a few yards of him.

Back at the apartment, he watches Kirill unpack the groceries. It seems he enjoys cooking, and in less than twenty-four hours of being inside Jack’s home, he’s already taken over the kitchen. Jack lets him and makes himself comfortable by sitting at the table, eating an apple.

“How did you come up with the name Sasha?” he asks between bites.

Kirill gives him a lazy one-shoulder shrug as he’s preoccupied with an item in his hand. “It’s my real name; Aleksandr Kirillovich Dragomirov. My parents named me after Tsar Aleksandr the Liberator; only they called me Sasha until I went to school. Aleksandr is a common name in Russia, so I began going by Kirill.” He glances up, offering a smile. “Less common.”

“And it stuck,” Jack observes.

“ _Mozhet byt_ ,” Kirill says.

Like that, he’s back to busying himself with the cabinets, clucking over their arrangements and continuing to put things away. This display of domesticity is endearing, especially since it’s coming from such a deadly man. Just more pieces to the elaborate puzzle that is Kirill; complex and lovely and the holder of Jack’s battered heart.

It’s that evening Jack’s desire returns; they’re cleaning up after dinner and he finds himself lost in Kirill.

This isn’t exactly the hardest thing to do; the man is beautiful after all. He doesn’t know what stops him from toweling off their plates - maybe it’s Jack noticing how long Kirill’s hair has gotten, hiding the scar on the side of his head, or him just standing there.

The force of him surges from deep inside Jack’s body and he’s suddenly wrapping his arms around Kirill’s waist. With his face in his lover’s neck, he tastes the day on his skin and delights in the salty-sweet flavor of him. Jack threads his fingers through Kirill’s dark hair, pulling him into a gentle kiss. They stay that way for a while, relearning and savoring the moment.

He doesn’t know when it happens but soon their hands are all over each other, making quick work of buttons, zippers, fabric as they hurry towards the bedroom. Jack moans aloud as Kirill backs him against the wall to sink his teeth into the tender skin of his neck.

Jack lets out a helpless whimper, shuddering as Kirill’s tongue soothes over the bite. He doesn’t care if there’s a bruise come morning or someone sees it over the collar of his shirt. So long as he gets to wake up every morning next to Kirill, his lover can do what he wants to his body.

He slips one of his hands into his lover’s pants, cupping his growing bulge through his underwear. Kirill hisses as Jack kneads him, hastening the way for his cock to grow torturously hard.

“Come,” Kirill whispers to him, taking Jack by the hand and leading him towards the bedroom.

Neither of them speak as they fall on the bed, pulling the rest of their clothing off in the process. Jack greedily touches Kirill’s body, trying to take as much of him in as possible. Even though they weren’t separated long, he feels as if he’s missed so much already.

He kisses Kirill’s neck, shoulders, and chest, using a path of freckles to guide the way. Jack runs his tongue over the well-muscled skin to drench his palette in his lover. He comes to one of Kirill’s plum colored nipples and takes it into his mouth. Kirill arches under him, stroking the sides of Jack’s face as he manipulates the yielding flesh into a hardened nub before doing the same to its twin.

Kirill lets out a broken gasp when the sharp edge of Jack’s teeth touches the sensitive nipples. He looks up, wondering if he’s done something not to Kirill’s liking only to find a pair of heavy lidded eyes staring back at him adoringly.

Jack goes to speak, stopped by the press of Kirill’s finger against his lips. His lover shakes his head and replaces it with his lips. Jack is eased down to the mattress as they explore each other’s mouths, never parting even as Kirill begins to open his hole with his fingers. Instead of fisting the comforter, Jack’s hands go to Kirill’s hair, where he tugs on him.

“I need you,” he whispers. “Please, Kirill! I need you.”

The other man’s smile could outshine the sun for it burns so brightly inside of the dim bedroom. Kirill eases his fingers out of Jack to slick his neglected length up. “Shh,” he murmurs, pressing the blunt tip of his cock against the puckered skin of Jack’s hole. “I’ll give you what you want, _Yagnenok_.”

Kirill chooses then to push into him, leaving Jack breathless. He takes him agonizingly slow to make up for lost time. It’s just as well - neither of them are in the mood for something quick. Together, they rewrite the history of Jack’s bedroom, erasing what’s transpired and replacing it with their lovemaking. Every square inch will be composed of their relationship and the panic Jack has felt will be a distant memory.

Jack cums to Kirill’s cock unerringly thrusting into his prostate, spraying messily between their bellies. He doesn’t have time to pull Kirill into a kiss and rides it out as his voice echoes off the walls. Strained Russian phrases spill from his lover’s mouth as his movements become erratic.

He looks up to find Kirill’s face hovering over him, cheeks ruddy and bright as he reaches his own climax. Kirill’s mouth falls open in silent exclamation, only making a strangled sound when his seed spurts deep into Jack’s still clenching hole.

“ _O moy bog_ ,” Kirill groans, dropping his head onto Jack’s collarbone. “ _Ya lyublyu tebya_.” He adjusts himself, turning to press his cheek into Jack’s chest. “I think you will kill me, Jack Ryan.”

Jack closes his eyes, chuckling. “Says the guy with his dick still in me,” he quips.

“Hmm, correct.” The jolt of Kirill flexing his length against his overused prostate causes Jack to cry out. “Mutual destruction, _da_?”

He tugs on Kirill’s hair, scowling. “Just you wait,” Jack playfully threatens.

The playful jabs and teasing continue late into the night until they’re entwined under the covers, reveling in the silence of the room. Jack lies on his stomach, eyes fluttering dangerously as Kirill walks his fingers up the scar on his spine.

He used to hate when it was touched - by doctors, by physical therapists, by Cathy - until Kirill worshipped it and opened the door to their relationship. “If I had chosen differently,” Jack says, “to take that envelope from Pamela, would you have tried to find me?”

“Without hesitation,” Kirill responds. It feels like he’s tracing his name into Jack’s skin. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. Tilting his head, Jack makes eye contact with Kirill and motions for him to come lie down. His lover does, pulling Jack against his chest and kissing the tip of his nose. “Just a thought that popped into my head.”

Kirill nods in understanding. “You and I, we’re in this together.”

“Good,” Jack states as he caresses Kirill’s jaw, bringing their mouths closer together. “There’s no one else I’d want here with me.”

 

* * *

 

The first month back in New York is Jack going through the motions with Kirill by his side and playing the part of a hostage survivor better than a grieving widower.

There are days Jack doesn’t want to leave the apartment due to the overwhelming sense of something trying to come for him. Only Kirill can coax him out of his hiding place, gently reminding Jack that he’s here to protect him. Sometimes Jack throws a tantrum, yelling and screaming while Kirill remains unfazed.

Eventually he relents.

Other times he’s more willing and they go for a run along the river. There’s always a surveillance team in tow, but in that moment when his feet are slapping against the pavement, Jack finds a sense of calm. They stick to places where he and Cathy never ventured: an old movie theater that only plays classic films, a dive bar with unknown substances and peanut shells littering the floor, the dusty bookstore Jack always wanted to go to but couldn’t because of Cathy’s allergies.

He goes to lunch with Tom and meets with a CIA appointed therapist twice a week.

Jack relearns how to live with what he’s been given; some days are difficult, others not so much. Kirill is there to help him carve out a routine entirely of their own making.

While it’s not perfect, it’s theirs and that’s what matters.

 

* * *

 

“You’re going to be reassigned,” Tom tells him over dinner.

They’re near Jack’s old office on Wall Street, tucked away in the corner of a restaurant like they’re having a business transaction over filets. Over his fork and steak knife, Kirill glances over at Jack to quietly gauge his reaction.

“Reassigned?” Jack repeats. “I didn’t even know I had been cleared for duty.”

Tom shrugs while he chews on his meal. “Not officially,” he says once he’s swallowed. “That’ll be next Wednesday, but your expertise has caught another department’s attention. You’d only be on loan to them - nothing long term.”

“Who?”

“Pamela Landy,” Tom replies. “Deputy Director of the CIA, Anti-Terrorism Division. You know of her?”

Jack shakes his head. “Only by reputation,” he answers.

“She’s earned it. Pam is a formidable player in our business and a valuable ally - sharp, brilliant, ruthless when provoked,” Tom elaborates. He takes a sip from his wine glass. “So don’t provoke her, kid.” A lazy smile appears on his face.

He returns it with one of his own. “I’ll try not to.”

“Atta boy,” Tom says with pride.

It radiates from his mentor. Jack imagines this is what his father would have been like had he and his mother lived long enough to see their son grow up. The rest of their meal is more relaxed, though Kirill sticks to the persona he’s developed for his alias.

“You never talk about your family,” Kirill states later. He’s lounging in bed while Jack brushes his teeth, having gotten tired of his nighttime reading.

Jack pulls a face and goes to spit the toothpaste foam into the sink. “Neither do you,” he counters and then continues rinsing his mouth out.

“My parents had me late in life,” his lover replies very matter-of-factly. “They tried to many years to have a child; I think they didn’t think that by giving up they would get lucky.”

He tries picturing Kirill as a child, small and precocious. Jack imagines that Kirill would be chubby cheeked with a mop of dark hair hanging over his eyes and serious expression. Or perhaps, his lover had been carefree and laughter came more easily than it does now.

“So no siblings?”

Kirill shakes his head. “ _Nyet._ What about you?”

“No, but I have loads of cousins,” Jack answers, leaning in the doorway of the bathroom and folds his arms over his bare chest. “I had a sister before I was born, but she died as a baby.”

The other has an unreadable expression on his face. “That must have been hard for them.”

“They never talked about,” Jack says. “Are your folks still around?”

“ _Nyet,_ they died when I was at university,” Kirill tells him as Jack approaches the bed. “Before FSB took an interest in me. Your file says your parents are also dead.”

Jack nods as he sits on the mattress. “Plane crash. Why are you suddenly so interested in my family?”

“You value Tom Harper’s opinion and what he thinks of you, much like a son and his father,” the other man observes. He notices the surprise crossing over Jack’s face and reaches to tap the tip of his nose. “I was trained to notice these things and you express a lot through your eyes, _Yagnenok_.” Kirill runs his thumb over Jack’s lips, lazily tracing them. “You are wondering what else I see.”

He clears his throat. “Maybe,” Jack whispers.

“I see that Tom Harper is not the person responsible for the hit,” Kirill says.

He sighs with relief, allowing himself to slump into Kirill’s awaiting arms. Wrapping against the other man’s body, Jack buries his face against Kirill’s shoulder. “Thank god,” he breathes.

“You were worried?”

“Well, yes. At this point, it could have been anyone,” Jack replies. “It just…I needed to be able to trust someone I’ve known for years. Someone who’s been honest from the very beginning.”

Kirill’s lips brushes against his scalp. “ _Da._ I understand.”

Jack already knows this. “You always have,” he tells him.

 

* * *

 

After his mental health evaluation and some rescheduling, Jack finds himself having lunch with Pamela and Cronin.

They’re meant to be scoping him out under Kirill and Tom’s watchful eyes; the usual agency ass kissing Jack loathes so much. He needs to keep up the appearance of never having met either of them, which he thinks he does well enough. Jack accepts their condolences over Cathy with a tight grin and a quiet ‘thank you’ once Tom has made introductions.

“We have heard a lot of great things about you, Dr. Ryan,” Pamela tells him during appetizers. “And given your handling of the Cherevin Affair, a few of us felt that your expertise would be beneficial for my team. As Tom already told you, it would be a temporary assignment. Unless if you wanted it to become permanent.”

Tom shoots her a meaningful look. “Hey now, Pam, don’t take my protégé from me!”

Pamela’s response is a genteel smile. “I was just putting the offer out there,” she says, turning her attention to Jack. “Dr. Ryan probably would appreciate knowing the full picture before accepting. Isn’t that right?”

“It helps weigh the pros and cons,” Jack replies, neutrally.

“It does,” Pamela agrees. There’s something about her answers that makes Jack think Kirill may have told her something about gaining his trust or she’s figured it out for herself. He suspects more of the latter since Pamela Landy seems to know things before anyone else.

Lunch goes well enough; he promises to give an answer in a few days’ time despite everyone - with the exception of Tom - already knowing what Jack will say. It’s just going through the motions of pretending.

And it’s exhausting.

Kirill and he go for a walk along the river once Tom has gone back to work; the day is overcast but holding up and fresh air never hurt anyone. They stroll in silence until a twinge in Jack’s lower back begins to bother him. He takes a seat on the nearest bench, wiggling about until he finds a comfortable position.

“Not wearing the right shoes,” he says lamely as Kirill sits beside him. “Is it always this hard?”

“Is what always hard?” Kirill asks.

Jack shrugs. “Playing a role. Pretending to be someone I’m not.” He glances at the other man. “Didn’t you have to do this for assignments?”

“ _Da_ , but it came naturally for me,” Kirill answers. “You might think this is a good thing, but it’s not. When I took Pamela’s offer, I had almost forgot who I was. Sometimes I still do…then you look at me and I remember.”

If he was able, Jack would lean in and kiss Kirill with everything he had. It’s not safe for them to do such a thing, given the nature of their mission. “I’m glad I can be of service,” he whispers, moving a hair closer to Kirill before wincing.

Kirill clucks at him as wrinkles of concern appear around his eyes. “Come. We will go back to the apartment and I’ll take care of you.”

He goes without argument, just like he obeys Kirill’s gentle command to remove his clothes and lie on the bed. It’s easy to submit to his lover especially when his lotion covered hands begin to work every knot and ache out of his back.

Like when he makes love to Jack, Kirill takes his time with his ailments. Pain becomes past tense as Kirill’s hands migrate downward. They continue, passing the base of Jack’s spine to caress his ass where fingers dig into the meat of them. A pair of lips touch the edges of his scar, moving downward towards other, more entertaining things.

Jack gasps at the sensation of his ass cheeks being spread, followed by the wet swipe of tongue against the pucker of his hole. Kirill does it again, taking more time to swirl around the sensitive skin he finds there.

“Oh shit,” Jack moans as he drops his head to the mattress. Kirill’s mouth is pressed into him, slowly working him open. The fantasy of having his lover do this in the shower, long before they were together, and wonders if this is just Kirill reading his mind as he always does. “Kirill…baby…”

The other man makes a sound of acknowledgment.

“I used to think about you doing this,” he grunts. Jack fists the comforter and shivers as the tip of Kirill’s tongue penetrates him. “Back at the safe house…before we…I thought about being in the shower and you’d come in behind me.” He jerks at the calloused pull of Kirill’s thumb as it seeks out his taint where he presses down on the thin skin covering his prostate. “And eat me out while I jerked off.”

The cool air of the room hits his saliva dampened skin. “Then what happened?” Kirill asks. He licks a stripe from hole to sack, pausing to suck a bruise into the crease of Jack’s thigh. “Did I make you cum,  _Yagnenok_? With just my tongue or did I fuck you?”

“Both,” Jack replies, his voice cracking from desire. Kirill’s fingers are stroking his sack, weighing each other in his hands as he listens to Jack. “You held my wrists against the tiles and fucked me hard, until you finished.”

Kirill contemplates the scenario while he moves back up to Jack’s hole, pressing the dry tip of a finger inside of him. “Right now is not the time to be rough with you,” he says before planting a gentle kiss to the small of Jack’s back. “But there are other ways to fulfill the thoughts in your head, _da_? Go to the bathroom; I’ll meet you in there.”

He gets up from the bed once Kirill moves away and leaves for the bathroom with his erection aching between his thighs. It’s already red and leaking, begging for someone to push him towards climax. Jack knows it will come as he starts the shower.

Breathless, dizzy, sated, boneless; Kirill has made Jack feel all those things and then some once they’re done having sex. He’s left him on the verge of losing his mind, but never has Kirill left him unfulfilled.

Stepping under the warm spray, a shiver of anticipation runs down Jack’s body. He stands in it, allowing the water to wash over him as he waits for Kirill. It does nothing for his cock which is still throbbing; his arousal coils in his groin and spreads to other places, causing his skin to prickle. Jack takes himself in hand, giving his length a good, hard stroke.

He suppresses a moan as he braces an arm against the cool tile and spreads his legs until they are shoulder length apart. Why he’s trying to keep quiet is beyond him; it’s not like he has to hide his feelings for Kirill anymore, having passed that point a while ago. Jack begins to work himself, allowing the noises he makes fall from his lips with abandon.

The shower stall becomes overly warm, but Jack doesn’t care. All he can picture is his lover’s expression when he eventually comes in and drinks in the sight before him. Of Jack’s muscles moving as water flows down his body, the sounds he makes, knowing that he’s thinking of Kirill.

Warm hands touch his hips, pressing fingertips into the joints to pull Jack against Kirill’s body. They skim back towards his ass and dip between the rotund muscles to pull them apart. A hiss of pleasure comes through Jack’s gritted teeth as he continues stroking his cock.

Kirill doesn’t plant a trail of kisses on his back like he usually does. He goes straight to his knees and buries his face between the dusty crease of Jack’s ass, where he continues his assault on the other man’s tight hole. The tip slips in easily and flicks mercilessly at the fluttering rim, easing Jack open bit by bit.

Capable fingers join Kirill’s equally capable tongue, stretching him for what’s to come. Two very different textures find his prostate, alternating between them until Jack’s semen is splattered against the tiles and his moans drown out the shower.

His lover is quick to find his own pleasure after that. Kirill thrusts into Jack once he’s added lube to his cock and takes him while whispering in Russian. He keeps his hands on Jack, lovingly caressing whatever he can touch until he hears Kirill saying his name in a strangled cry.

 

* * *

 

His first day of working under Pamela Landy is a whirlwind.

Starting a new position, even if it is a temporary one, always goes by quickly and this one is no exception. There is an assumption he’ll spend the day locked away in a room to go over documentation. Instead, he’s darting around from meeting to meeting, introduction to introduction, and more meetings before finally sitting down in the office he will occupy during his assignment.

Jack collapses at his desk with a grateful sigh while Pamela and Kirill look on in amusement.

“Not what you were expecting, Dr. Ryan?” she asks.

He spares her a glance. “Not exactly.”

“This line of work never is,” Pamela offers, her own experience backing her words. “Tomorrow the real fun will begin and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

The real fun turns out to be meeting with her team of analysts and picking apart the information they’ve been able to find. It’s disconcerting to find Cathy’s photograph staring back at him when he’s handled a tablet, but Jack steels himself.

It’s a pattern of his own creation; using whatever he’s feeling and putting it towards something else. He makes it through the initial meeting and interactions with the people who are now his colleagues.

The silver lining in all this is that he doesn’t have to lie to them. This team has already been briefed on their assignment and Jack’s vital role in it. After being kept on the fringes, it’s his turn to search through various forms of documentation to uncover who wants him dead.

Whomever it is, they keep their profile low for the time being. Jack should be thankful, but in reality, he’s scared. So he begins to go through the motions of reclaiming his life.

Work, go to the gym with Kirill to burn off nervous energy followed by cooking dinner, showering the day off him, and use the rest of the evening to relax. There’s also the times he and Kirill fuck on every surface inside of his apartment, which Jack believes is more conducive to easing his stress.

Just thinking about Kirill’s body pressed against his is enough is make Jack hard.

“You seem more like yourself,” Tom comments over lunch one day. They are sitting in Jack’s office with sandwiches and soft drinks. “More alert. I guess sending you back to work was a good idea.”

He wishes he could tell his friend and mentor that it’s not only work helping him come back to himself, but the silent third party sitting near the door. Jack lifts his eyes from his meal to Kirill, who pays neither of any mind.

Maybe one day he can and knows with certainty that Tom will be happy for him; just today is not that day.

As he walks Tom down to the lobby, someone shouts his mentor’s name and they turn to attention. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices Kirill’s fingers quietly dancing towards his gun as he watches the stranger’s approach.

“I didn’t expect to see you roaming around here,” the man says, extending his hand to Tom once he’s within distance. He’s shorter than Jack and Kirill, though his lean appearance seems to add to his height and the sternness of his face. “What brings you to these parts?”

Tom gestures to Jack. “I was about to ask you the same thing,” he replies. “I would think you’d stay away from this side of town.”

The man’s smile resembles a sneer as he tries to let Tom’s comment roll off him. “I heard the Beast is quite busy these days.” He turns his attention to Jack and sizes him up with dark eyes. “Noah Vosen.”

“Jack Ryan,” he says, exchanging a quick hand shake with him.

Recognition crosses over his face. “This is the Boy Scout you were telling me about,” he states to Tom. A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, though not his eyes. Something about Noah Vosen’s expression immediately puts Jack on edge; he can’t pinpoint it exactly, but it’s there. “And he’s back to work already. If I had been you, I would have taken more time off. You know, to relax.”

“You will address him as Dr. Ryan,” Kirill cuts-in before the conversation can go further.

Any amusement Vosen may have had disappears as he stares at the other man. “And you are?”

“Sasha Bogdanov,” Kirill curtly replies.

“He’s part of Jack’s protection detail,” Tom interjects. He slaps Vosen on the back and laughs. “Come on, Noah, let it slide! Mr. Bogdanov is just doing his job.”

Vosen straightens his posture while forcing a grin. “He should be commended. So, _Dr. Ryan_ , what brings you to this building? I thought you and Tom, here, were further downtown.”

“I’ve been assigned to Pamela Landy’s team,” Jack says. He notices Vosen’s eyebrows rising. “Temporarily.”

“You’ve sold yourself to the Dragon,” Vosen mentions in a dour tone. “Give her my regards, why don’t you?”

 

* * *

 

“Noah Vosen,” Pamela says with venom. “He and I have a long, turbulent history.”

Jack nods. “I figured as much. Do you mind me asking what it is?”

“No,” she tells him. “What do you know about Operation Blackbriar?”

The name is familiar. He vaguely recalls hearing about it on the news while he was enduring physical therapy at Walter Reed and later when he first started working with Tom. Jack paid little mind to what stories were being broadcast since he had been putting all his energy into proving the doctors wrong. He _would_ walk again, and without the aid of anything.

“Black Ops program,” Kirill states. “It was the successor to Operation Treadstone before Ward Abbott proposed for a joint Department of Defense communications program.” He trades a knowing look with Pamela. “Vosen told the Senate that Blackbriar was an operation formed to track down a rogue agent.”

Pamela has a hard expression on her face. “A lie that nearly cost me my career,” she adds. She squares her shoulders. “I was able to prove that he had been misinformed, and Noah made sure that Ezra Kramer and Dr. Albert Hirsch took the fall for it.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jack replies, disgusted. “Nothing happened to him?”

“Not exactly,” Pamela says. “He was transferred to a different division while I received the job he had his eye on. That was long ago and I survived.” She levels her stare to Kirill. “We all did.”

Jack turns to see his lover nodding solemnly and frowns. “So what was he doing here?”

“Vosen is still respected amongst certain circles within the organization,” she replies. “Why do you ask?”

He presses his lips together as thoughts mill around in his mind. “I got a weird feeling about him. Something I couldn’t shake,” Jack admits.

“That could be anything,” Pamela tells him.

“No,” Jack states, shaking his head. “It wasn’t anything. With your permission, I’d like to investigate him.”

The room falls silent as he waits for Pamela to contemplate his request. There’s little doubt in Jack’s mind that she’d rather not become entangled with Vosen once again and for that, he doesn’t blame her. From the few minutes he spent in the man’s presence, Jack understands her distaste for him.

“Noah is good at covering his tracks,” Pamela says. “You might find a paper trail, but it won’t get you very far. You’ll need to approach him directly and gain his trust; the latter is not an easy thing to do. He’ll investigate you, if he hasn’t already, before you’re able to get close to him. After that, Noah will test you. He has a thing about loyalty even if he doesn’t give his over very often.”

Jack nods. “What else?”

“You will go in without Kirill or a wire,” she continues. “We can set up surveillance around your location, but Noah needs to be under the assumption that you’re working _against_ me.” Pamela taps her finger upon the desk as she levels her stare at Jack. “You might have to do some unsavory things to prove yourself to him. Is this something you’re prepared for, Dr. Ryan?”

He swallows down the resolute ‘no’ clawing at his throat; the thought of having to prove his allegiance to a man such as Noah Vosen reminds him of Viktor Cherevin and his misdeeds. If it leads Jack to finding the person responsible for the attempt on his life, so be it.

“I can help him,” Kirill says.

Kirill’s offer doesn’t make Pamela blink twice. Nothing ever gets past her. “Good. He’s going to need it.”

“One condition,” Jack interjects. “We tell Tom.”

“Dr. Ryan, I’m not sure if that is a good idea.”

He shakes his head. “He’s been my mentor even before I joined the CIA,” Jack pleads. Long before he had his career and even Cathy, he could always count on Tom. “I can’t lie to him. Not anymore.”

A grimace pulls at Pamela’s feature, showing her displeasure in his request until Kirill clears his throat. She glances at him, curious.

“Tom Harper checks out,” Kirill tells her. “I’ve overseen the surveillance myself.”

Jack whirls around, shocked. “Surveillance?”

Kirill never mentioned any sort of reconnaissance on Tom, save for the single time he conveyed his assurances that Tom wasn’t involved with the conspiracy surrounding Jack. He never questioned how Kirill knew and chalked it up to his years with working for the FSB.

“You’re certain about this, Mr. Dragomirov?” Pamela asks as she ignores Jack.

“ _Da_ ,” the other man replies. “I am.”

She stands up and crosses her arms over her chest as she walks towards the window. Pamela stays there, her back turned to the other men in the room, until her head bobs up and down. “Okay,” she says, addressing them. “Tell him.” Pamela glances at Kirill. “I hope you’re right about this.”

 

* * *

 

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were still investigating Tom?” Jack demands from the second they walk into his apartment.

Kirill frowns as he removes his jacket and hangs it in the hallway closet. “You did not ask,” he replies. He doesn’t meet Jack’s angry glare and instead, heads towards the living room.

“I didn’t…” Jack mumbles before following him. “I didn’t ask? That’s the bullshit reason you’re going to give me? Really, Kirill!”

He finds the other man making himself comfortable on the couch, where he removes his shoes. “I am tired,” Kirill states. “And I do not want to argue.”

“Too bad,” he snarls, stomping all the way to where Kirill is sitting and hovers over him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Did it occur to you that I should have known Tom might have been a suspect?”

Kirill grunts as he picks up a book from the coffee table and begins to read it. “It was best that you did not know,” he says. “There was more important things for you to focus on.”

“Like what?”

The other man steals himself, narrowing his eyes as he scowls at Jack. “Your mission.”

“My mission? What about my _life_?” Jack shouts, grabbing the book from Kirill’s hands and tossing it away from them. It lands with a thud, though he barely notices it. A haze of red covers his vision at Kirill’s blasé reaction towards Jack’s anger. “I had _every_ right to know!”

Kirill’s nostrils flare while the rest of his features tighten with annoyance. Jack’s seen a similar expression before when he tried to overdose. Fear is absent, having been replaced with a quiet rage boiling beneath the other man’s skin. “We are in the business of only knowing what we are told,” Kirill says, his voice pitching as his fury grows. “You, of all people, should understand that.”

A harsh laugh comes from Jack’s lips as he rolls his eyes. “Me of all people,” he echoes, bitterly. Thoughts swirl in his head, all of them filled with angry accusations of the events leading up to this. It stings and wounds Jack’s already fragile ego. He points at Kirill with a shaking hand. “Fuck you!”

He turns on his heel towards the front door. “Where are you going?” Kirill shouts.

“I’m leaving,” Jack tells him as he checks for his wallet and then sets his cell phone on the table.

“You will stay here,” the other man commands. He’s left the couch now and is standing at the end of the hallway. “And calm yourself. It’s dangerous for you to go out.”

Jack balls his fists. “Is that a fact?” he spits out. “Or something I needed to be told?”

“ _Glupyy chelovek_ ,” Kirill mutters.

Kirill leaves to pace the living room; it’s long enough for Jack to bolt out the front door and down the stairs.

It’s easy to disappear into the fray outside of his building, people are still returning from work or heading out for the evening. He looks like every other person on the street wearing a jacket over his business casual assemble; the perfect disguise for someone running away. Jack tucks into himself as he hurries to put distance between his person and the apartment.

He has no destination in mind; just the urge to satisfy the craving of being free. Even at the expense of provoking Kirill and Pamela’s fury or putting himself in danger, Jack needs to remember what it was like before his life fell to pieces.

To be able to walk down the street without a second thought, to breathe in the New York City air, to hear people complain about the subway, to be alone in a city of millions.

Every knot of apprehension slowly uncoils during Jack’s travels. He keeps moving, not out of fear, but just to drink in his surroundings. He walks until his feet ache and his stomach rumbles from lack of food while his throat is dry and there’s sweat causing his undershirt to stick to his skin.

It’s late - well past dinner time - when he finds himself outside of Tom’s brownstone. While the rest of the house is shuttered in darkness, the office light on the first floor is on. Through the curtains, Jack makes out the shadow of his pacing mentor.

He stands there and realizes that Tom’s family must be asleep by now. It’s been hours since he left his own apartment - how many, he has no idea - and feels guilty as he walks up the front steps. As he draws closer to the door, he can hear Tom’s muffled voice through the windows, registered the worried tone of it.

Jack clears his throat and dares to knock. Taking a step back, he waits for some form of acknowledgement and finds that it comes quicker than expected. One of the curtains of the office pulls away, revealing Tom’s face and the cell phone in hand.

He disappears, though not for long. Jack listens to his rushing footsteps and the sound of locks being turned, using the time to prepare for a thorough dressing down.

“Christ, kid!” Tom exclaims as he gestures for Jack to come inside. “I’ve had to listen to one pissed off Russian bodyguard _and_ Pamela Landy yelling at me for the past four hours. Do you know have any idea of how much bourbon I need right now?”

He leads Jack into the kitchen where Tom’s cell phone is set on the counter. Picking it up, Tom says, “Yes, he’s here.” Turning to him, Tom points to the table. “Stay there. I’ll be just a minute.”

Jack removes his jacket and folds it across his lap once he’s seated at the kitchen table. Sighing, he drops his head onto his arms and closes his eyes. Tom’s voice comes through the walls as he tries to soothe the nerves of the person on the other end of the call. He can hear bits and pieces like “he’s fine”, “no, he’s not hurt”, “just wait a second”, and so on.

The call goes for eons and ends with Tom’s plea to allow him to handle Jack. “You’re going to spook him if you come over here. Trust me, I’ve known him for _a lot_ longer than _you_. He just needs some time to process and a good night’s sleep. I’ll bring him back when _he_ wants to, okay?”

He’s pulling at his cuticles when Tom comes into the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” Jack tells him.

“I know you are,” the other man says as he goes to the refrigerator. “You look like a kicked puppy. Have you had anything to eat yet? No? I’ll reheat some leftovers.”

Jack nods, watching as Tom makes him a plate of food which goes into the microwave and then brings him a glass of water. “Thanks,” he whispers.

“Don’t mention it, kid.”

The questions don’t come until Jack has gotten some food into him. He realizes during the first few mouthfuls that he needed it more than he realized. His brain kicks back on and lifts the fog inside of Jack’s head, giving him the energy to simply think.

“Let me get you another one,” Tom says as he takes Jack’s empty water glass and goes to refill it. He hadn’t even noticed it had been finished. Tom offers Jack a warm smile when he sits back down and slides the glass over to him. “You bruised Mr. Bogdanov’s ego by slipping through his fingers like that.”

Jack shrugs as he eats some more. His silence earns a frown from Tom, who continues watching him. “What’s going on, kiddo?”

He looks up from his plate, forcing himself to swallow. “A lot,” Jack answers.

“Do you want to tell me?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jack tells Tom everything.

He starts from the very beginning, on the last day of his belated honeymoon with Cathy. Jack describes the moments leading up to her betrayal and the kidnapping which Kirill thwarted, the feverish days he spent inside of a Paris safe house before he was relocated to Minsk, and his first meeting with Pamela.

No detail is spared when he recounts the night his despair grew to be too much and he attempted suicide. Jack explains how Kirill found him and saved his life once more.

Kirill. _Kirill._

He tells him everything about their relationship; how the former FSB asset guided him through putting the pieces back together. Of how they fell in love, which Jack finds easier to confess than he thought it would.

Each chapter of the story thus far continues to pour out of him and Tom, to his credit, remains completely silent. He never fills a pause with questions or his opinion; he just waits for Jack to continue with the utmost patience.

By the time Jack finally stops speaking, the dryness in his throat is making his voice hoarse and it’s nearly three in the morning. He releases a sigh that causes his entire body to sag and waits while Tom lets it all sink in.

“Do you need more water?” his mentor asks as he stands up and rolls his shoulders.

Jack glances down at his empty glass and nods. “Sure,” he says, pushing it towards him. He watches Tom as he goes to refill it and gets one for himself, which his mentor fills with bourbon. “Do I get one?”

A familiar smirk appears on Tom’s face. “You probably need it more than me,” Tom comments. He comes back to the kitchen table with three glasses, sliding two of them over to Jack. There’s none of Tom’s usual sayings as he takes a seat across from Jack, only him taking a long drink from his bourbon. He smacks his lips together appreciatively and leans back in the chair. “So, it seems you’ve found yourself in quite a pickle, kid.”

“That’s an understatement if I ever heard one,” Jack chuckles before taking a sip of bourbon. He winces as the alcohol hits the tender tissues of his throat, enough to makes his eyes burn. “I’m _so_ fucked, Tom.”

His mentor reaches across the table and gently clasps his wrist, giving it a squeeze. “You’re underestimating yourself,” Tom replies. “You’ve made it this far, kid. That’s saying a lot.”

“With help,” he rasps, sparing the other man a glance. He takes another drink until the bourbon is warming his core and the glass is empty. Jack stares at the remnants - several drops of dark liquid at the bottom - and shakes his head. “I’m scared - _really_ scared.”

Tom opens his mouth when a tiny voice comes instead. “Daddy,” says Millie Harper from the doorway, causing both men to turn. She stands there in her purple pajamas while she rubs the sleep from her eyes. “What’s Uncle Jack doing here?”

“You,” Tom begins to say as he goes to pick the little girl up, “are supposed to be in bed, young lady.”

She gives her father the same scrutinizing look Jack has gotten from Tom on many occasions. “So are you,” Millie tells him very matter-of-factly. “It’s _late_.”

Jack snorts in amusement while Tom rolls his eyes. “Uncle Jack and I were talking about adult things,” he replies.

“What kind of adult things?” Millie inquires.

“Aren’t we inquisitive for being awake at three in the morning?” Tom comments as he sets his daughter down so she may go greet Jack. “I wish I still had your energy, Millie Bear.”

She ignores him as she walks across the tile floor to their guest and crawls onto his lap. There she buries her face into Jack’s shoulder, hugging herself to him. “Hi,” Millie says, voice muffled. She peeks up at him. “Where’s Aunt Cathy?”

An uncomfortable silence falls between the two adults in the room. “Millie Bear,” Tom says to her, “do you remember what we talked about?” He grins when the little girl nods. “What did we talk about?”

“That Aunt Cathy can’t come visit us anymore,” she solemnly replies.

“And do you know why?”

Millie nods and leans closer to her father while still seated in Jack’s lap. “She went to go stay with the angels,” she answers before turning her attention to Jack and more important things. “Do you want to go play with my dolls?”

“No, we’re all going to bed,” Tom interjects over Millie’s dismay. He gives Jack a meaningful look and adds, “That includes _you_.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing that comes to Jack’s mind is it’s strange to wake up alone.

He’s gotten used to having Kirill next to him and the feeling of another body radiating heat underneath the covers as they lie together. They’ve been sharing a living space for nearly six months and a bed for half that duration; rolling over to find the empty space beside him makes Jack miss Kirill.

It follows him through breakfast as he balances eating with holding Millie on his knee while he listens to her older brother, Scott, tell him about school. Multi-tasking like this comes easy to Jack; he’s always enjoyed being around children, though the thought of having his own has now shifted towards him staying alive. Guilt gnaws at his stomach, since just being there puts Tom and his family in danger.

And for walking out on Kirill.

The latter stings more than the former, thanks to Tom’s assurances that all is fine and he’s guilty of doing the exact same.

“It’s part of the job,” he explains Jack while they watch the kids playing in the backyard. “We chose a life that ain’t easy, kid. I wish it was, but that’s why we cherish all the good we see even if there’s some bad mixed in with it.”

Tom’s gaze floats towards his wife, Jillian, who is busy tending to a small garden and smiles. She must notice his eyes on her since she looks over her shoulder to grin at him. It hurts to watch them, for they represent the life Jack sought to have for himself. That dream is gone now, having died when Cathy did.

“This Kirill character probably understands it better than most,” Tom adds.

“Probably,” Jack quietly agrees, thinking of the other man. They haven’t spoken about what will happen to them after - at least, not yet. He imagines that the concept of having a future in a relationship is a foreign one to Kirill since his previous life in the FSB hadn’t really allowed for it.

The very idea of being with Kirill for the long term - whether it be marriage or just being life-long partners - is something Jack finds himself wanting.

“Is he good to you? Aside from last night’s disagreement,” Tom questions with a pointed, no-nonsense expression.

Jack’s nod is immediate. “Honestly, I don’t think I would have made it this far without him,” he answers truthfully.

“You love him, don’t you?” Tom states. He smiles when Jack begins to blush. “You’re a brave one, kid. To do it all over again after what happened. A lot of people wouldn’t.”

He smirks. “Does this mean you won’t threaten him with bodily harm if he hurts me?”

“Are you kidding me?” the other man exclaims, shifting in his seat. “I’d like to keep breathing, thanks!” Tom joins in with Jack’s laughter before telling the kids to be careful as they chase each other. “I don’t think Mr. Dragomirov would knowingly hurt you. I see how he watches you, how you both interact with each other; he’s in it just as deep as you.”

It’s not surprising to hear this, though Jack doesn’t mind for it to be reiterated. He knows the depths of Kirill’s feelings for him - he’s heard it said, seen it in gestures, and felt it. Now that he’s had time to evaluate their argument - the first real fight in their relationship - from the night before, Jack understands why Kirill didn’t tell him about the investigation on Tom. His lover wanted to spare him from more pain if he could.

To protect his already fragile trust in people and find nothing for Jack to worry about.

“So here’s my next question,” Tom says. “Are you going to make him sweat it out, or do you want to go home?”

The answer is a simple one, and a half-hour later, Jack is sitting in Tom’s car as they drive back to his apartment.

His entire day has been off - everything about it has felt wrong from the moment Jack opened his eyes. From the borrowed jeans and t-shirt to the paper bag of his own clothes resting upon his lap and the lack of Kirill’s presence, he loathes it.

For better or worse, Kirill has become his beacon, his axis point. Jack is simply lost without him.

When they get back to his apartment, Pamela and Cronin are there, while Kirill is clearly absent. For a harrowing moment, Jack thinks he’s left him until he hears Pamela speak.

“He’ll be back soon,” she assures.

Jack nods despite his heart still being in his throat. “I’m going to change,” he announces.

It’s a lame excuse to ensure that Kirill is truly coming back, and upon seeing the other man’s things amongst his, Jack’s able to breathe again. He throws the contents of the paper bag into the hamper before stripping out of borrowed clothing and into some of his own.

As he fits a t-shirt over his torso, Jack feels the sensation of something watching him. He finds Kirill standing in the threshold with a hesitation written into his features. They stare at each other for a few moments, repeating the awkwardness of their first weeks in the other’s company.

He doesn’t know who takes the first step or if words are spoken, but soon Jack is standing in the center of the bedroom with his arms around Kirill. He clings to the other man: breathing him in, sighing into the weight of being held in his embrace, and thanking every deity he knows of that Kirill hasn’t left him. Jack massages his fingertips against Kirill’s hairline and closes his eyes, content to just _be_.

“I don’t like waking up alone,” his lover confesses as he holds him just a bit closer.

“Neither do I,” Jack says into the fabric of Kirill’s shirt. He inhales the scent of amber and honey, letting it wrap him up in the other man’s comforting presence. “My entire day was off because you weren’t there.” Jack feels the movement of Kirill’s nod. “I’m sorry for walking out and for making you worry.”

A lingering kiss is pressed into the curve of his neck, where Kirill’s breath bears down on his skin. “I’m sorry for not telling you about…”

“Please don’t,” Jack pleads. He pulls away to find confusion on his lover’s face. “I should have let you explain instead of acting like an asshole.” Jack gives the front of Kirill’s shirt a playful tug. “I think you wanted to make sure I wouldn’t get hurt again. That’s why you didn’t tell me about your investigation on Tom.”

The tension in Kirill’s body deflates as he nods. “ _Da_ ,” he agrees with the barest hint of a smile curling his lips upward.

It’s a look Jack likes best.

“Come,” Kirill whispers, hooking his finger into the loop of Jack’s jeans and tugs him forward. “Before I must share you again.”

They seal their apologies with a sweet, languid kiss that ends with Kirill nipping at Jack’s bottom lip. It’s a promise for what will come once their company has left; a bit of titillation and the beginnings of desire.

Clasping hands, they wander into the living room where Pamela, Tom, and Cronin have gathered. The latter notices them first, offering the two men a nod of greeting before Pamela looks up from the tablet she and Tom are reviewing.

“You’ve patched things up,” she comments.

Kirill’s fingers give Jack’s a reassuring squeeze. “We have,” he answers. “You have filled in Mr. Harper.”

“Nearly,” Tom replies, turning his attention away from the device and lifting his eyes. He offers Kirill a friendly smile. “Mr. Dragomirov, we meet again.”

“We do,” Kirill tells him.

Pamela rises from her seat. “Good,” she says. “Now that we’re all on the same page, let’s discuss our next move.”

 

* * *

 

It seems that Jack’s brief encounter with Noah Vosen has sparked the latter’s interest.

“We received several pings through the internal servers that someone on his team has been reviewing your personnel files,” Cronin explains as he slides a tablet across the coffee table.

Jack untangles himself from Kirill and reaches for the device, brow raised. “That’s sloppy of him,” he comments.

“The opposite,” Cronin tells him. “He doesn’t care if we know that he’s been doing some digging. If there is the slightest possibility that you’re unsatisfied with Pam, Noah wants to have already planted a seed in your head of someone you can go to.”

He frowns at this. “But I could go to Tom.” Jack replies.

“Tom is also friendly with Pam, and Noah is betting on the fact that you won’t bad-mouth her to a known associate,” Cronin continues, grinning. He sits back and shrugs while Jack makes a disgusted noise. “It’s actually ingenious of him.”

Kirill slips the tablet from Jack’s hands. “Psychological manipulation,” he says, sounding unimpressed. He begins to read the document on the device. “It is an old tactic; social influence used to change the behavior or perception of others using unsavory methods.” Kirill glances up, frowning. “I dislike it.”

“I’m sure that the people Noah’s thrown under the bus will agree with you, Kirill,” Pamela states. She’s pacing the living room with a glass of water in her hand. “It’s his trademark. To build trust with his target before he blindsides them. Many have fallen for it, but not all.”

Jack tilts his head. “You,” he says.

It silences the room. Four pairs of eyes turn to him, Pamela’s the most scrutinizing of them all. Her expression is steely, a warrior’s stare. She’s had to fight for her reputation and livelihood thanks to Vosen’s attempt to bury her. “Correct,” she finally says.

“What made you see through him?” Jack questions.

“Instinct,” she tells him. Her secretive smile appears as she sits across from Jack and sets her glass down. “And some documentation given to me by a former asset. Noah tried to use it against me by saying I was going to commit treason by attempting to sell Treadstone secrets to the press, but in the end, the Senate believed my story. He spun it that he had been misinformed; it was enough to transfer Noah out and effectively demote him.”

Jack scoots closer. “Who was the asset?”

“That’s above your clearance level,” Pamela says. Sadness tugs at her mouth before she blinks and is her usual self again. “It doesn’t matter. He’s been off the grid for nearly a decade.”

Kirill fidgets next to him, clearly ill at ease while he goes back to reading the tablet. As the conversation carries on, mostly about what tactics to use and the next course of action, Jack glances in Kirill’s direction. The other man doesn’t raise his eyes, though it’s clear he knows Jack is looking at him.

The mystery asset is an uncomfortable topic for everyone. While dogged in his research, Jack understands personal boundaries. If Kirill decides to tell him, he will do so in his own time.

Their plan is a simple one: wait Noah out for a week or two before Jack approaches him with his grievances. If the opportunity presents itself sooner, so be it. Jack will cast out the bait to see if Noah bites, then he begins playing the naive agent who has stars in his eyes and believes every word the other man says.

“You still have a reputation as being a Boy Scout, kid,” Tom informs him with a crooked grin. He begins to chuckle into his drink when Jack makes a face. “I’m just reporting the facts! Besides, use it to your advantage - outsmart him at his own game.”

It’s just him, Tom, and Kirill left in the apartment, Pamela and Cronin having departed earlier. The three of them sit in the kitchen, nursing glasses of bourbon when they aren’t nibbling on leftover pizza. Jack notices Kirill’s quiet observation of his interaction with Tom; a hard stare that one could perceive as pensive or murderous.

The good-natured ribbing and teasing must be completely foreign to his lover, who most certainly didn’t have a close or personal relationship with his colleagues. At times Kirill seems confused and lost by the scene before him, so Jack reaches over to touch his knee. It earns a shy smile, which then vanishes as Kirill brings his drink to his lips.

Later, when it’s just them and they’re going about their nightly routine, Jack broaches the subject. “It wasn’t like that for you,” he says. He sees Kirill’s brows rise in question through the bathroom mirror reflection. Jack sits on the bed. “With you and your handlers. How Tom and I are - close.”

Kirill wipes the toothpaste foam from his mouth and shakes his head. “No, it was not.” He leans against the bathroom sink, naked like the day he was born and silent as he remembers. The muscles of his back shift under his skin, places where Jack has kissed and touched. Parts of his body that Jack adores and worships for their beauty and strength. “They were just a paycheck and I was just another employee - relationships were not expected.”

How Kirill became the person he falls in love with, despite his glum history, Jack will never know. He feels sympathy and respect for his boyfriend as he stands up to approach him. Kirill allows it, letting Jack come into the bathroom to wrap his arms around his bare waist and kiss one freckled shoulder.

“You’re amazing,” Jack whispers. He presses his lips to warm skin. “Do you know that? Every time I think about it, I fall more in love with you.”

Kirill huffs, a smile playing over his mouth. “You do?” he asks, teasingly as he turns around. “I am glad you think so; I feel the same way.”

Jack brushes his thumb over Kirill’s plush lips, admiring how perfect they are before closing the distance between them. The man in front of him is too beautiful for words; there are times Jack is caught off guard by it and will be forever stunned that Kirill chose him.

“Why me?” Jack burbles, lips skimming against Kirill’s. “Of all the people you’ve met, why did you choose me?”

Kirill chuckles into Jack’s mouth. “I should ask you the same thing, _Yagnenok_ ,” he teases as his fingers caress the shell of Jack’s ear, touching invisible hairs and sensitive skin. They continue their exploration, skimming over his face to write a new language upon every last centimeter.

Jack sighs into the kisses Kirill bestows. “You gave me no other choice,” other man confesses, tilting his chin until their mouths are lined up. They come back together, pressing in a slow dance of already slick lips and realigning when needed, taking what’s always been theirs.

With hands on his hips, Jack is walked back into the bedroom by Kirill until his knees make contact with the mattress. His balance doesn’t falter; Kirill keeps their bodies and lips pressed together while he buries his hand in the strands of Jack’s hair. Mouths open wider, allowing for tongues and teeth, until all they can taste is each other on their pallet.

Jack whines at the sensation of warm hands over the expanse of his stomach, raising his shirt up and over his head before it’s dropped on the floor. His boxers are the next thing to fall victim to Kirill’s actions, and then he’s just as naked as his lover.

“Do you want to open me up?” Jack whispers heatedly.

The incoherent whine Kirill makes is filled with the need, the want, and desire wrapped up in his vocal cords. He cups the sides of Jack’s face, kissing him hard before pushing him onto the bed. “ _Nyet_ ,” Kirill replies. “I spent time in the shower…” A blush causes his cheeks to glow. “I want _you_ to fuck me, _Yagnenok_.”

Jack’s mouth goes dry.

He knows every part of Kirill’s body almost better than his own. Jack’s memorized the taste of him when they kiss and the saltiness of Kirill’s cum. He’s sucked and run his teeth along the spot under his lover’s ribcage to incite a moan and mouthed the sweat covered freckles adorning his back and shoulders. Jack knows the exact moment Kirill is about to come just by the change of his breathing and the flush on his skin; he’s got it down to a science.

Patterns and familiarity with flesh and bone may give Jack some knowledge of his lover, but nothing like what Kirill is offering.

“Yeah?” Jack whispers, kneading the delicate skin of Kirill’s hips with both hands. He nudges him forward, their cocks rubbing against each other.

Kirill nods as he fluidly shifting their positions so Jack is hovering over him. “Like this,” he instructs, wrapping his legs over Jack’s waist. Licking his lips, Kirill pulls Jack down to him. “I want to watch you while you fuck me.”

“ _Jesus_ baby,” Jack moans. He drops his head onto the curve of Kirill’s shoulder, chuckling. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack before I get inside you?”

“I have read the reports from your physical evaluation and the doctor…” his lover begins to say.

Jack smiles, charmed by Kirill’s literal interpretation, and shakes his head. “It’s a figure of speech,” he explains before pressing a kiss to the tip of his lover’s nose. “It means you’re going to make me too excited before we get started.”

“Oh,” Kirill says. Tilting his head, he leans up to mouth Jack’s neck. Dragging his lips and teeth over the skin, he sucks a bruise just above the throb of Jack’s pulse. “Perhaps we should get started, _Yagnenok_.”

He reaches down between Kirill’s legs to palm the hard line of his cock, only drifting further back once his lover is leaking on his fingers. He caresses his balls and finds the sensitive skin of Kirill’s perineum, where Jack strokes the area with his thumb until Kirill grunts softly in his ear.

Their mouths gravitate towards each other and settle into something slow and familiar when Jack finds the pucker of Kirill’s hole, already wet and open for him. He makes a soft sound as he dips a finger inside the tight heat, then two. Jack deepens the kiss while his arousal spikes; with the assistance of lube, he could push into Kirill in that very moment.

Fuck, he wants to.

“Where’s the lube?” Jack rasps, only to find a small packet of it pressed into his hand. Between kisses to Kirill’s puffy lips and his jaw, he laughs as he slicks himself up. “How long have you wanted this?” he asks, staring into the hazel pools of his lover’s eyes.

“Long time,” Kirill answers. Threading his fingers through Jack’s hair, he tilts his head up to kiss him once more.  

It’s the sensation of teeth drawing over his bottom lip that makes Jack groan. He tosses the empty packet of lube over his shoulder and hooks his arms under Kirill’s knees, pushing them up towards his chest. The movement exposes the other man’s hole, already slick with lube and just begging to be pillaged. He guesses this is what Kirill feels like just before they make love, that Jack is giving him everything he has.

Caressing one of Kirill’s calves, Jack uses his other hand to line himself up. His cockhead catches at his lover’s puffy rim and he hears a bitten-off moan. “You okay?” Jack questions.

“ _Da_ ,” the other man replies with a nod. “I’ll tell you if I am not.”

He enters Kirill slowly, savoring the feeling of heat surrounding his cock. It’s been awhile since he’s been inside of someone - someone that he loves beyond all reason. Jack groans low in his throat at the sensation of Kirill’s body urging him on; that delicious tightness of muscles contracting around him as he eases in.

And then there’s Kirill, whose face reveals a plethora of emotions. His head is thrown back against the pillow, jaw slack and eyes shut. Kiss swollen lips tremble as Kirill draws in a shaky breath while his fingers flex and release against Jack’s biceps.

He looks beautiful like this, in such complete surrender and vulnerability; if at all possible, Jack finds himself falling even more in love with him. Every reaction - each cord of shifting muscles, toes curling when Jack grazes Kirill’s prostate, the Russian curse that falls from his lips when Jack hits bottom - is more picturesque than anything Jack could ever imagine. Kirill’s mouth forms a silent exclamation until Jack pulls out only to thrust in again. A moan comes from the center of the other man’s chest, where he’s started to flush.

Jack kisses the trail of reddened skin until he catches Kirill’s lips with his own. He fucks him deep, pounding into his lover’s prostate with each thrust, the way Kirill has done to him. Those long, fast thrusts that bring Jack to the brink of pleasure-filled insanity; the visceral need to take Kirill into the center of himself until all he’s aware of is Kirill.

Beautiful, maddening, stubborn, loyal Kirill who is giving Jack _this_ and loves him back.


	5. Chapter 5

There is something to be said about spending long hours having sex - or in their case, make-up sex.

It reminds Jack of the very beginning of his relationship with Kirill, from the moment they fell into bed together and all the ones in between. They spoke of the stories behind the scars on their bodies, tracing over them with both fingers and lips. A cluster of pin pricks on Jack’s chin became Kirill’s favorite place to run his teeth. The long, thin line under Kirill’s ribcage, faded to silver from age, is where Jack spent hours outlining it with his tongue. In those long hours, Jack laughed for the first time in months and noticed Kirill’s dimples when he smiled.

Outside of what got them off, they learned about each other and emerged from Kirill’s bedroom nearly a day and a half later, sated and happy.

He watches Kirill now with sleepy eyes and a lazy grin as the other slumbers, thinking that he could do this for the rest of his life. Whatever residual worry Jack may have felt is certainly gone now, fading away as he wakes. Everything feels right, from his lover being the first thing he sees to just being near him.

The effect Kirill has on him is like nothing he’s ever felt before - the feeling of being safe and protected. Jack closes the millimeters between them to rest his head upon Kirill’s shoulder, sighing happily as his cheek makes contact with warm skin.

Kirill’s reaction is an automatic one; his arm curls around Jack’s waist to pull him closer and mutters something in Russian.

“Go back to sleep, baby,” Jack murmurs, his lips brushing against Kirill’s collarbone. A chuckle escapes as Kirill obediently drifts off with a tired nod and begins snoring softly a few minutes later.

He stays like that; it allows him to gaze at Kirill, who rarely looks at wholly at peace. His face softens in repose as it does for everyone, but only Jack gets to see _this_.

 _You and I, we’re in this together,_ Kirill had told him when they first arrived back in New York.

Looking down at him while he sleeps, Jack readily admits he believes him.

 

* * *

 

The following weeks are spent playing a game with Vosen; the kind of game where Jack dangles himself as bait while he waits out the other man.

Patience is key to everything about this operation. There’s no staging of an altercation or diversion to make Vosen move faster. No fake fights, like he did in Russia. Just time and the hope Vosen will eventually approach him.

Waiting chafes at him.

Jack wants answers or a pathway to them. He wants to know who ordered his death and why. To understand what they could possibly gain from taking him out and if there were any others involved. He wants to finish this mess and move on.

To shut the door on this painful phase of his life and begin anew with Kirill.

Days come and go, Jack’s mood with it. Sometimes he can forget the charade before it comes back when he least expects it, blindsiding him. Speaking with a colleague, walking down the street, glancing at his reflection in the mirror; it comes for him, merciless like the people who wanted him dead.

Kirill notices, he always does, and becomes the balm to soothe Jack. A single touch calms him and when they’re alone, a gentle kiss smothers the flame of his anger.

“How do you do it?” Jack asks him. They’re relaxing on the couch after another long day, one that provoked a tidal wave of emotions. His sock-covered feet are in Kirill’s lap while the other man reads a book. It’s a very domestic scene and if anyone stumbled upon it, they would see a regular couple.

Kirill turns the page of his book. “Do what, _Yagnenok_?”

“Know me so well,” he replies. Jack tilts his head as Kirill glances at him. “I don’t need to say anything and you just…”

He finds himself at a loss for words.

A hand touches his ankle, giving the joint a squeeze. “I solved your puzzle,” Kirill teases as he sets his book on the coffee table. He shifts Jack’s feet from his lap and crawls over him until his head is resting upon Jack’s chest.

“My puzzle?”

“ _Da._ The one here,” Kirill says as he taps on Jack’s forehead, smoothing his furrowed brows with calloused fingers. He kisses the invisible trail left behind. “And here,” he adds, tugging down the collar of Jack’s shirt until his chest is exposed and presses his lips right over his heart.

Jack cards his fingers through Kirill’s hair. “Are you sure you can find it?” he questions, trying to keep his tone light. “It might be broken still.”

“ _Nyet_ ,” Kirill assures as he rubs his thumb over the area. He raises his eyes and grins. “Still there.”

He laughs, leaning forward to peck Kirill on the mouth.

 

* * *

 

New York grows colder and the uncertainty of whether Noah will bite becomes more palpable.

And then he does.

It happens on a grey afternoon while Kirill has stepped outside to grab them coffee. Jack is alone in his office, reading over a report, when there’s a knock at his door. Without hesitation, he tells the visitor to come in, thinking it’s probably someone from Pamela’s team or even Tom popping in to say hi.

“Dr. Jack Ryan,” Noah Vosen says as he shuts the door. He offers a smile when Jack looks up, surprised. “And without your guard dog. How long do they plan on keeping him around?”

Jack shrugs as he saves his progress and shuts down several windows. “However long they need to,” he replies, neutrally. He gestures towards a vacant chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was in the area and decided to see how you were,” Noah tells him as he sets his briefcase down and takes a seat. He undoes two buttons on his suit jacket and makes himself comfortable.

In private, his body language is very lackadaisical. To take attention away from his calculating state, Jack surmises while he makes a study of Noah. It’s a tactic to make his target feel at ease, to uncover their secrets without revealing his own.

Like Cronin had said, it’s genius.

“Every time I’ve been in the building, you’re always surrounded or rushing off,” Noah continues. “Pam keeping you busy?”

There’s genuine interest in his statement, but Jack is aware it’s only a ploy to find ammunition. It’s all ego driven; Noah wants dirt on Pamela as well as a way in with Jack. “I suppose,” he says. “It depends on your definition of busy.”

“Ah,” the other man says. Smug is a sinister look on him as it cuts through Noah’s features. “Not the sort of work you were expecting, I take it?” He looks passed Jack’s shoulder and out the window of his office. “She’s a legend - that’s for sure - but it’s all pomp and circumstance. Grunt work, even.”

Jack forces himself to bite his tongue and nod in agreement. “It can be, but both of us know that this job isn’t all about flashy assignments.”

“Very true, Dr. Ryan,” Noah states with a hint of amusement, clearly remembering their first encounter and Kirill’s demand.

“It’s Jack,” he says, extending an olive branch.

With dark eyes, the other man observes him before replying. His stare makes Jack’s skin crawl, not because he knows what he attempted to do to Pamela. There’s something deeper, something he isn’t able to put his finger on.

Something that makes Jack want to hunt him down and reveal his secrets, even if they have nothing to do with him.

“You can call me Noah.”

 

* * *

 

It’s Kirill who notifies their team of Jack’s impromptu meeting with Noah.

The message is a short one sent from a secure email address, written in a code that looks like he’s telling them of his observations about Jack. Kirill is his bodyguard and head of the security team assigned to watch Jack’s every move; to anyone else it’s a daily log and nothing more.

To Jack it’s a reason to push Kirill’s pants and underwear down his thighs so he can blow him on the couch. He does it to a constant flow of Russian being uttered and the pull of fingers in his hair. When Jack glances up at Kirill, he finds a pair of hooded eyes staring back.

He must look like the very picture of debauchery with his lips wrapped tight around Kirill’s length, all cherry red and spit-slick with flushed cheeks. His tongue flicks the protruding vein on the underside of his lover’s cockhead, igniting a groan that comes from deep within Kirill’s chest. Jack repeats the movement and adds his hand to the mix, stroking what he can’t get into his mouth.

“ _Yagnenok_ ,” Kirill moans, eyes slipping shut as his head tilts back.

As he takes him deeper into his mouth, the sound of Kirill’s voice sends a thrill down Jack’s spine. He likes it when his lover is at his mercy for a change; when his precum is leaking onto his tongue and the taste of him fills Jack’s mouth. Moving his hand from Kirill’s cock, he ventures to his lover’s balls where he plays with him before grasping his length again. Kirill’s twitches and pulls harder on Jack’s hair, ruining its styling and tugging on his scalp.

Jack moans in reply and it’s what sends his lover over the edge. There’s always a slight variance for when Kirill finds his release; sometimes it’s his breathing or the sounds he makes or the way his body moves. One thing stays the same, and it’s the complete abandon on his face. The moments where anyone can see into his soul and find the person Kirill is.

Except Jack always sees him, no matter where they are.

He swallows Kirill’s release down until he’s gone soft and Jack’s jaw is aching as much as his own cock. Kirill’s thumb brushes over his cheekbone, caressing it while he comes back to himself. His eyes travel to the pitched fabric over Jack’s crotch and grins.

Pulling him to his lap, Kirill initiates a kiss as soon as Jack is close enough. They stay like that - with Jack draped across him, groaning in anticipation, while Kirill begins to unbutton his shirt. The fabric parts and slumps down Jack’s shoulders until his lover drops it on the floor. His underwear is the next article of clothing to fall victim to Kirill’s hands.

Jack cups the other man’s cheeks, deepening their kiss so Kirill can taste himself on Jack’s tongue. He’s so enamored with his lover’s mouth that he doesn’t notice fingers creeping up his torso until they’re pinching a nipple. He jerks, his surprised muffled by Kirill’s lips.

Kirill rubs the taut nub into a hard peak, going and going until it’s too much. Jack shudders in the circle of his arms, body thrumming as their kiss is broken and Kirill’s tongue is flicking the sensitive skin. His fingers repeat the process on the other nipple, neither hands or mouth leaving Jack’s chest.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, eyes wide as he watches. His cock is bobbing against his stomach, leaking and ready to be touched and yet Kirill does no such thing. Jack drops his forehead into the curve of his lover’s neck. “Please, Kirill.”

He’s about to beg - _really_ beg - when the warmth of Kirill’s lips touch his like relief. A whimper catches between them and Jack melts into his lover’s arms.

It’s short-lived; he hears the rumble of Kirill’s voice in his ear, curling around him like a fog. “I want to watch you,” Kirill whispers.

 _Please yourself_ , says a voice inside of his head. It sounds an awful lot like Kirill and Jack shivers as his own hand finds his cock.

The first jerk makes him groan aloud as precum wets his fingers. Jack swirls his thumb around his sensitive head, over the edges, while Kirill’s eyes bore into his.

Something like this used to make him fumble and blush, unable to handle the attention. Now all Jack wants to do is fall into those beloved hazel irises and drown in their color. He teases himself further; his entire body is overly warm with lust, stirring in the pit of his stomach.

“Kirill,” he whimpers, hand moving up and down his length between their bodies. The chafe of his knuckles against his stomach isn’t the most comfortable, but Jack doesn’t care. He wants to fulfill Kirill’s request and all of the allure it entails.

He wants to give Kirill everything he’s been given.

Pressure increases on his chest and between his legs; Kirill’s sucking around his nipples, ringing them with red mouth-shaped bruises until they ache. His hands drift towards Jack’s hips, holding him steady while his thrusts become erratic.

His release is so close, on the tip of his tongue and pooling throughout his body. “Kirill,” Jack whimpers again, licking his lips. “Baby…”

“Do it now,” Kirill gently commands, squeezing his ass cheeks.

Jack is certain that if Kirill wasn’t holding him in place, he’d be swept away in his orgasm and end up on the floor. The intensity whites out both senses and surroundings. Warmth coats his fingers, on his stomach, everywhere in reach of his spill.

Places where others have touched him and are erased by Kirill.

Jack shudders through the aftershocks and the blood roaring in his ears before coming back to himself. His hand still grasping his cock as breathing comes back to him while Kirill’s fingers card his hair. They gently lifting the damp strands from his face as he whispers sweetly.

“ _Otlichno_ ,” he says between kisses to Jack’s forehead. “ _Otlichno, moya lyubov_.”

He nods, only understanding the latter part of Kirill’s words. _My love_ ; hearing them fall from Kirill’s lips warms Jack to his core.

Like the endearment is only meant for him and no one else.

 

* * *

 

Noah invites Jack out for drinks a week later.

“I would have called you sooner,” he explains from across a table at an overpriced bar, “but you know how our line of work can be.” Noah gives Jack a winning smile before taking a sip from a Manhattan. The light catches in the deep red contents, tinging Noah’s hands the same color.

Jack forces himself to return the smile. He moves his wrist, swirling bourbon around in his own glass. It feels uncomfortable without Kirill’s steadfast presence and guidance. He’s the one who keeps Jack grounded through the chaos and helps him when he’s floundering. “Our lines of work differ, though,” he comments, innocently. “I analyze potential threats through patterns and transactions, whereas you’re on the front lines. Facing down the bad guys, getting all the glory.”

“If I remember correctly, _you_ had some glory not too long ago,” Noah replies.

“And a lot of pain,” Jack says, dropping his gaze to his hands.

He doesn’t have to mention Cathy or his so-called kidnapping; it’s common knowledge and still whispered about when Jack walks by. Everyone knows about him and for as long as he works for the CIA, his brush with glory and its consequences will never be far behind.

“What if I told you that you can be a part of something bigger,” Noah implores as he signals for a waiter. He’s finished his drink and orders them another round. “Something that will define you.”

Jack raises a brow. “Define me?”

“Maybe that isn’t the right word for it,” Noah says. He tweaks his lips together while he thinks. “ _Reinvent_ ,” he corrects with a smile. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Isn’t that what everyone wants?” Jack counters.

Noah shrugs. “True, but you know what it’s like to have a shadow following you. Something that wasn’t even of your own doing.” He leans in. “I think you want to be known as someone else, Jack, and that’s not a tragic widower.”

Their new drinks arrive, giving Noah the opportunity to order appetizers to go with them. He and the waiter chat merrily while Jack pretends to mull over his offer. He has to hand it to Noah - the man certainly does his research when he has someone in his crosshairs. It’s far cleverer than most, reminding Jack of Cheverin and his calculating mind.

To imagine Noah Vosen benefitting from Cheverin’s plan isn’t a difficult thing to do. Had Jack not foiled it, that is. There are the others; faceless people whose identities are unknown to him and are probably hidden well by Vosen until he deems them a liability.

If Jack has learned anything, it’s that allies are also expendable.

“So,” Noah says once the waiter’s left the table. He’s still smiling. “How would you like to reinvent yourself, Jack?”

He asks what it entails, details of which Noah is vague about. Jack isn’t entirely surprised; this man is the type of person who keeps his intentions close, only revealing parts when it’s relevant.

“You could accompany me to some meetings,” Noah suggests. “Local ones, if you’re up for it.”

Jack makes a questioning expression. “What about work?”

“These meetings don’t have to be during work hours,” the other man tells him. He plots his mouth with his napkin. “They aren’t illegal, if that’s what you’re wondering. It’s just some networking. Meeting folks you wouldn’t normally be exposed to in Pamela Landy’s lair. People who could elevate you career-wise.”

He nods, feigning piqued interest, and ends up agreeing to a single meeting. “A test-drive,” Jack says as they leave the restaurant. “See if I like what you’re offering.”

“And vice versa,” Noah replies with a wink. He extends his hand and gives Jack a firm shake while waving a cab down. “I’ll be in touch.”

Jack watches him get into the car and disappear into the night before setting off towards his apartment. It’s not far from where they met - only a few blocks - and he figures the cool air will do him some good as he tries soothe his nerves. The meeting went well enough, but the prickling sensation that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end doesn’t fade. Jack knows Noah Vosen is hiding something; whether it has to do with him or another matter - he can feel it in his bones.

Kirill is waiting for him when he comes through the front door and shuts it, looking concerned and relieved. He and Landy’s team have been tracking his movements thanks to a well concealed device hidden in Jack’s cufflinks. Still, just seeing Kirill standing there makes him feel grateful to come home.

He removes his jacket and hangs it before trudging into Kirill’s arms. Jack sighs as Kirill tightens their embrace and whispers into his hair, slowly loosening the stress from the evening’s events.

“Come,” Kirill says as he reaches for Jack’s hand and leads him towards the bathroom.

They shower in silence, stripping the day from their bodies until both of them emerge from the stall with flushed skin and feeling much more relaxed.

“How does he even look in the mirror?” Jack asks later. He and Kirill are in bed, lying in the dark as the night wears on.

Kirill grazes his teeth over Jack’s bare shoulder. “Men like him have black hearts. The feelings of others and consequences of their actions do not affect them until it does.”

“Sometimes I wonder if any of this affected Cathy,” Jack whispers. “If she looked at herself and wished she had chosen differently. If she never met at me at all.”

It’s the first time he’s talked about her without being prompted by another. Her memory is everywhere, even as Jack relaxes in Kirill’s arms.

“I want to move,” he declares as he absently traces lines on Kirill’s skin. Jack kisses where his fingers have been and sighs, already privy to what Kirill is thinking. “We’ve been here for three months and it hasn’t gotten any easier for me. I hate coming back to this place knowing that we made a life here and I thought we were…”

 _Happy_ , he almost says.

A word that used to mean so much and now dies upon his tongue. It’s bitter and copper tasting inside of his mouth, soaking into every pore of Jack’s being.

Just over eight months since the safety of his world was ripped away from him. Nearly thirty-five weeks since Cathy’s deception and death. Two hundred and forty-three days since Kirill crashed into Jack’s life to offer him a second chance.

And the clock went back to zero, counting the minutes until they fell into each other.

“I want something that’s _ours_ ,” Jack continues after a while. He feels Kirill’s body tense. “I know it has to be in my name, we could still build…”

 _A home,_ he wants to conclude. _Our home._

He patiently waits for Kirill’s response in the dark. A car honks from outside, a cat yowls, someone several buildings over is blasting music through an opened window. White noise to fill the pauses, a soundtrack to the lives of two vastly different men and yet so similar.

Jack is about to tell him that a decision can wait, that they’re both tired and should go to sleep.

“It would need two bedrooms,” Kirill says. “To avoid suspicion.”

Relief warms his chest as Jack nods in agreement. “Makes sense,” he replies, burrowing himself deeper into Kirill’s arms.

“And new furniture,” his lover adds, sniffing. “To _our_ tastes.”

Jack bites his lip, suppressing the laughter bubbling in his throat. Patting Kirill’s arm, he clears his throat. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

As far as moving goes, they find a new place in a relatively short time and by the end of the following month, Jack signs papers on a garden-facing two-bedroom flat.

Selling his old apartment happens while they are relocating to the new place; it’s not surprising since it’s prime real estate. Jack isn’t sorry to let go of it and the memories associated with it. Instead of dwelling on it, he and Kirill decide what to take with them before selling or donating the rest.

The new flat becomes a dark, cocoon-like home, inspired by Slavic and Nordic design. It’s neutral greys with hints of color and plenty of storage for Kirill’s personal arsenal. A security system is installed on the same day new appliances come for the kitchen while Jack unpacks his vinyl collection. On the first night inside of their home, he and Kirill listen to a Radiohead LP while they curl up under a blanket on the couch.

To be pressed into the familiar lines of Kirill’s body is exactly what Jack needs as he settles into a new environment. Between the haunting music and his lover’s fingers carding through his hair, Jack falls asleep pinned between Kirill and the back of the couch.

Kirill gently wakes him, murmuring softly into his ear and coaxing Jack into the bedroom. He goes through their usual routine - undressing, washing up, and finding their way under the comforter. Jack hears Kirill’s quiet chuckle as he pulls the bed linens up and over Jack’s shoulder before kissing him on the cheek.

He loses himself to the white noise of Kirill puttering around their home and falls asleep knowing they’re playing for keeps.

And just like that, several steps behind the rest of the world moving on, so does Jack.

 

* * *

 

A bottle of expensive bourbon is delivered to his office, the card signed by Noah Vosen.

 _To new beginnings and legacies,_ it reads along with an address, day, and time - an invitation. A reminder of what they had spoken about over drinks; a proverbial deal with the devil. As Jack pockets the card, he wonders how many people unknowingly took Noah up on his offer, never understanding the consequences until they had been betrayed. Too many, probably.

Kirill notices the gift and doesn’t comment. They carry on like nothing’s happened because this business is all about keeping a good poker face. If Kirill sends a message to Pamela, he does it stealthily while Jack reviews reports.

Actions are kept secret and their outcomes to be revealed at a later time.

On their way home, Jack tosses the bottle without Kirill’s prompting. It disappears into a trash bin outside the subway as quickly as they walk by it. It’s a relief to have it out of his possession because Jack has no idea what Noah could have done to it.

A bug, poison, a bomb that activates when the cap is twisted off - the outcomes are endless.

They go home, walking shoulder to shoulder. They make dinner together, Jack watching and following Kirill’s instructions, and eat their meal in at kitchen table. Leftovers are placed into Tupperware and then into the refrigerator.

Jack beckons Kirill to join him in the shower, where they make love. He keeps himself balanced with his forearms pressed into the tiles while Kirill takes him from behind, hands clutching his hips and mouth cradled between his shoulder blades. Their echoes bounce off the walls, rising above the sounds coming from the faucet.

It’s slow between them, drawn out and languid as both of them savor the feel of Kirill inside of Jack. Each thrust strikes Jack’s prostate, inching him closer to climax until he’s ready to break open. He reaches for his length when Kirill grasps his wrist, bringing it back up and pinning it against the tiles.

“Not tonight, _Yagnenok_ ,” he rasps into Jack’s ear. Kirill does the same to his other wrist, keeping them above Jack’s head. “Tonight you come from just me.”

A shiver travels down his spine. “Kirill,” Jack moans, choked off and delirious with pleasure. He pushes back on Kirill’s length, taking him deeper into his body. “Harder. _Please_!”

His request is met with the biting pressure of being filled to the brink. Jack cries out while his body bends back, as much as he’s able, and clamps down on Kirill’s cock, coming hard enough to white out his vision. The shock of it leaves him breathless, as if he’s been electrified and lost control of himself.

If it weren’t for Kirill holding his wrists, Jack would certainly not be standing. He sags in his grip with a moan, twitching with each one of his lover’s thrusts until the warmth of Kirill’s orgasm fills him. His wrists are released, falling to Jack’s sides.

“I think I’m still seeing stars,” Jack says after a while, once his voice has come back to him and he can breathe without panting. Kirill is still keeping him upright as he presses gentle kisses into his neck.

His lover chuckles as he reaches for a loofah to wash them off. “Then it’s a job well done, _da_?”

“Mhm,” Jack agrees wordlessly.

 

* * *

 

He meets with Noah.

It’s in a private room of a restaurant - the kind of place with mood lighting and too much noise. Jack follows on the heels of the other man, winding his way through the crowded floor until they come to a hallway lined with doors. The third one has a man standing outside, giving Noah a nod of greeting before turning to Jack to ask permission to pat him down.

Jack allows it because he really has no other choice. He stands with his arms and legs spread, trying not to flinch as the man goes about his task. Noah offers Jack an apologetic smile during the process, as much as a man like him can give. Once Jack is cleared, the door opens and they are ushered inside.

“That was unexpected,” he comments quietly to Noah, who chuckles.

“Just procedure, kid,” Noah says by way of explanation. “These folks are a bit…cautious.”

Jack raises a brow. “Paranoid, you mean.”

The statement earns another laugh from Noah as they enter a large dining area, where others - all men, Jack notes - are already mingling. Once he’s removed his coat and draped it over a chair next to Noah’s, Jack joins them.

He can pretend to be interested in what these men are saying and work the room with his boyish, wide-eyed charm.

Jack can fledge his eagerness to impress Noah more than he already has and make small talk.

He can drink and eat and stay for a nightcap. He can listen and learn and keep his secrets hidden from these associates of Noah’s.

All of these things, Jack can do them without anyone being wise to what he’s really trying to do.

And it’s exhausting.

He goes home with flushed cheeks and his stomach twisting. Kirill is there when he comes through the front door and waits for Jack to remove his coat, which he takes for inspection. Waiting in the living room is Pamela, Tom, and Cronin - all of them eager to hear about his evening.

They wait until Kirill comes, holding a crushed bug no bigger than a dime in his palm.

“Use it to your advantage,” Pamela urges him. “Let Noah and the person holding his strings know that you’re a lot smarter than you let on.”

Jack drains the water bottle Kirill fetched for him. “But you said to play dumb.”

“To a point,” she says. “Now it’s time to give him a challenge.”


	6. Chapter 6

He walks into Noah Vosen’s office without an appointment and deposits the bug on his desk.

“Found this in my jacket when I got home,” Jack says angrily.

Noah glances at him over the rim of his glasses, expertly concealing his guilt and surprise. He blinks.

“I hope that wasn’t too expensive,” Jack continues, “because I doubt the R&D guys will be able to fix it.” With that, he goes to leave. The instant his fingers touch the door handle, he hears Noah call his name and turns his head.

The other man removes his glasses as he stands and walks around his desk. Noah leans against it, arms folded over his chest. “I admit that my associates and I are overly cautious…”

“You and your associates are a bit beyond that,” Jack hisses. He almost believes his own anger and the spite causing his voice to become tense with it. Jack knows what he appears to others - a wide-eyed analyst, naive and excited for the opportunities heading his way. Cherevin had underestimated him not that long ago, though it seems like another lifetime. He had forgotten what kind of calculating mind hid behind Jack’s boyish smile, causing his ruin.

He holds Noah’s stare, watching him blink before he speaks again. “I owe you an apology, Jack,” he says carefully.

“It appears so, Noah,” Jack huffs. “I’ve trusted you from the beginning. Perhaps returning the favor might be a good start.” With a frown, he opens the door and leaves as Pamela had instructed. Jack hightails it out of the building, returning to his office where Kirill waits.

The only indication of his assignment’s success is the smile Jack gives him.

 

* * *

 

Several days pass before Noah dares to contact Jack again.

It comes in the form of a late night phone call while he and Kirill are asleep, safely ensconced under the comforter after a long week of work. Jack has his face buried in his boyfriend’s chest while his arm rests across Kirill’s stomach. Both of them are blissfully unaware of the city’s goings-on until a persistent beep from a cell phone wakes them both.

“Turn it off,” Jack whines, thinking it’s one of their alarms. He untangles himself from Kirill to roll onto his back. The sound continues. “Babe…”

Kirill reaches for his phone sitting on the nightstand. “It’s not mine,” he says hoarsely as he sets it back down and flips over to his stomach. “Check yours.”

Groaning, Jack grabs his own device to find Noah’s name flashing up on the screen. “Hello?” he answers.

“Ah, you’re up,” Noah replies.

“I _was_ asleep.”

Noah chuckles as if he’s heard the funniest joke. “Come on, Jack. You’re a young man; shouldn’t you be out enjoying life?”

“Not at…” Jack pauses to reach over Kirill’s body and flip his phone over to check the time. His body grunts in annoyance at being used as a flat surface. “Two fifty-eight in the morning, Noah.”

He feels Kirill go from asleep to fully awake at the mention of Vosen’s name. Jack makes room for his boyfriend to sit up against the headboard as he asks, “Is there something I can help you with?”

“My associates and I were mulling over what you said in my office,” Noah begins to say. “Not many people have the nerve to talk back to me.”

Jack straightens his posture even though the other man isn’t there. “Those people probably didn’t realize you bugged their coats.”

“True,” Noah replies. “And those people aren’t as smart as you, Jack. They only see what’s presented to them, not what lies underneath. You, on the other hand, find the threads holding it together. _That_ , my friend, gives _you_ the advantage of knowing just as much as the person with all the cards.”

He doesn’t say anything; Jack knows he’s being baited into revealing something. Anything that Noah can use against him later on.

“Which brings me to the reason why I’m calling,” Noah continues after several tense moments. “One of my associates would like to meet you. Are you available for dinner on Tuesday evening?”

Jack exchanges a look with Kirill in the darkness of their bedroom. “I can be,” he finally says as Kirill leans in and kisses his t-shirt covered shoulder.

“Good. I’ll text you the time and place once I know,” Vosen replies. “Sound alright to you?”

“Only if you never call me this late again,” Jack grouses.

Noah’s laughter rings through the speaker before Jack ends the call and looks to Kirill. With a sigh, he presses his forehead onto his boyfriend’s shoulder. “This is too easy,” he comments.

“I agree,” Kirill tells him. The weight of his arm pulls Jack closer as he takes the cell phone from the younger man’s hand and sets it down on the nightstand. “I will speak to Pamela, see if we can put eyes on you during this meeting.” Turning back, he cards his fingers through Jack’s hair and smiles. “It will be okay, _Yagnenok_.”

Jack swallows. “Will it?”

“ _Da_ , I’ll make sure of it.”

 

* * *

 

He finds that Noah Vosen does the unexpected and actually introduces Jack to his associates, as he refers to them.

They become interchangeable; bureaucrats from New York or DC who shake his hand with a smile and laugh at his jokes. The kind of men and women who wear expensive suits and Rolex watches on their wrists while they sit across from Jack in a restaurant. Individuals that go to great lengths to hide their secrets, but have little scruples in revealing others'.

The very people who may or may not have had a hand in the attempt on his life.

Jack’s skin crawls every time he’s around them.

Like a good asset, he plays the game. He observes and reports back, he keeps his profile high enough not to spook Noah or his associates. If he notices a pattern, he analyzes it like he’s always done before relaying the information to Pamela and her team.

He plays pretend, like he’s dissatisfied with his assignment. Like the agency is punishing Jack for being kidnapped after they thrust him into the spotlight. Jack compartmentalizes and tries to do this best because one of these people will lead him to answers he seeks. He shakes their hands and laughs at their jokes, hiding his fear of becoming like them.

That their repulsive nature will infect like a slow growing disease until one day, Jack no longer recognizes the monster he’s become.

It keeps him up at night or, alternately, plagues his dreams. Tendrils of distress curl into every thought as Jack goes about his day and make him sick when he meets with Noah. He’s a trembling ball of anxiety, vibrating and clenching until his body aches.

There are times he lies in Kirill’s arms as silent tears slip down his cheeks and onto the pillow beneath him. Jack listens to the sweet nothings whispered in English and Russian until his eyelids grow heavy and he yawns.

_You and I, we’re in this together._

The words run through his head, over and over. Repeating and ingraining themselves into every crevice of his brain.

In a world where words no longer mean anything, they are the only ones Jack still has faith in.

 

* * *

 

“One of his associates mentioned some a drug - chems, he called them - that went wrong,” Jack explains inside of Pamela’s office.

Neither she nor anyone else in the room seem surprised to hear about this. “Go on,” she implores.

“It was meant to enhance human strength and stamina, like creating a human weapon. Unstoppable, even,” he continues. With a curious glance to Tom, he looks back to Pamela. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

She nods as she paces the office. “Operation Outcome,” Pamela answers. “It was a Defense Department black ops program. The participants took chems to enhance their physical and mental abilities.” Pamela pauses to stand in front of the window, where just beyond the glass lies New York City. “An answer to the failed programs Operational Treadstone and Operation Blackbriar, except it, too, failed.”

“It sounds like Noah and his associates are trying to bring it back,” Jack tells her. “Perhaps Cherevin was a major investor?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” she says, turning to him. “He was worth billions and had his hands in many markets. His money could have helped them find ways to perfect the drug, make the program salvageable.”

Tom clears his throat. “Would black ops accept foreign funding?”

“Not if they didn’t know about it,” Cronin pipes in from his seat. “A man like Cherevin knows how to launder like the best of them. He could have the money cleaned up and appear legitimate so the Defense Department wouldn’t ask questions once it got into Vosen’s hands.”

Jack leans forward on his elbows, analyzing everything he’s heard. “What if Noah is only the in-between?” he asks, receiving skeptical looks in return, save for Kirill’s. “He’s a smart man and has managed to play the game for a long time without getting caught. But the lengths that someone went to try to have me killed…Noah’s involved, but he’s not the puppet master.”

“He didn’t know that you existed until the Cherevin incident,” Kirill mentions, scratching his chin. “Aside from Mr. Harper, did anyone else approach you before or during your stay at Walter Reed?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Does someone you interacted with come to mind?”

“I was around too many people to count, Kirill,” Jack tells him. “Commanders, officers, medical staff…honestly, if they walked in here, I couldn’t tell you if I knew them or not.”

Tom clears his throat, earning their attention. “There was one other person who made inquiries about you before your accident,” he says, sounding a bit guilty for hiding this information. “I didn’t think of it until now. Does Lieutenant Colonel Avery Wallace ring a bell?”

“Yeah,” Jack whispers as he closes his eyes, seeing Avery’s face against his lids. He remembers every detail, from the dimples in his cheeks to the soft curve of his brows. “It does.” He blinks, to find the occupants of the room staring at him. “We were friends, but it doesn’t matter. Avery was killed in a helicopter crash a few weeks after my accident.”

His mentor frowns upon hearing this. “Maybe we should look into who he reported to,” Tom says. “Perhaps there’s a connect between them, Vosen, and Cherevin?”

“I agree,” Pamela replies. “We’ll start at the beginning. When did you two meet?”

“Uh…a year and a half after I joined the Marines,” Jack answers as he exchanges a nervous glance with Kirill, whose face remains stoic. “About 2003, I guess.”

She nods. “I’ll get my team on it,” Pamela states. “In the meantime, keep doing what you’re doing, Dr. Ryan.”

Later, once they’ve returned home, Kirill brings it up as he and Jack are putting dishes into the dish washer. He doesn’t hear Kirill the first time, having gotten lost in his thoughts. Jack wonders if Avery had been tasked to befriend him, to gain his trust by any means, or if his superior’s plans were kept hidden from him as well.

For a man as fiercely loyal as Avery, Jack has learned that everyone keeps their secrets. He thinks of Cathy, a person whom he hasn’t thought of in a long time, whose infectious smile and laugh eventually won him over. Was Avery just as manipulative of Jack’s feelings as his wife? Could he ever have done what she did?

He hears the vibration of Kirill’s voice as he continues to stare at the backsplash. It’s the sound of his boyfriend clearing his throat that finally lulls Jack from his daze. “What did you say?” he asks.

“You are wondering,” Kirill begins to state, “if he betrayed you.”

Jack opens his mouth to refute this, but finds that the words don’t come. They won’t come; they can’t.

“ _Yagnenok_ ,” Kirill says softly. He sets the dish in his hand onto the counter and reaches for him, fingers grazing the stubble on Jack’s cheek. “You can tell me. I won’t be angry.”

After a long silence, Jack spies the earnestness in Kirill’s eyes and relents with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know,” he tells him. “It’s been so long since I thought about him and I just…I don’t know anymore.”

Kirill makes a _tch_ sound and gently tugs on Jack’s arm. He goes into Kirill’s arms willingly and settles against his chest, allowing his boyfriend to comfort him somehow. They stand like that for eons, both of them tired from the day’s events and their assignment. As Jack presses himself deeper into Kirill’s embrace, he wonders how the other man managed to do this for so long without going crazy.

“I feel like I can’t trust anyone,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. “Except for you.”

“Trust what you know to be true,” Kirill advises him. “The rest will follow, _Yagnenok_.”

Jack nods just as his cell phone rings from its spot on the island next to Kirill’s. He grabs it, noticing Tom’s name on the screen and answers it. “Yeah?”

“Avery Wallace is a dead end,” Tom says. “I dug up a report on the helicopter crash that killed him. His commanding officer was also on board.”

He raises a brow. “Were there any survivors?”

“Nope. I looked for any connections between Wallace and the people he reported to; nothing. Your pal was clean, kid.”

Jack breathes a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s some good news, I guess.”

“We’ll sort this out,” Tom promises. “You hear me, kiddo?”

“Yeah, I do,” Jack chuckles. “Loud and clear.”

 

* * *

 

The meetings continue and the list of names only grows longer.

At the beginning of each introduction and handshake, Jack steels himself by repeating Kirill’s words to himself.

_You and I, we’re in this together._

Because in this scenario, it’s the only thing that keeps Jack sane.

 

* * *

 

There’s only of Noah’s associates that eludes him.

A man named Carl Leaveway, who seems to cancel or become a no-show when Jack is scheduled to meet with him. He’s like a phantom in the shadows: always whispered about, but never seen. A person so legendary that he’s mentioned during every meeting Jack has had with Noah and yet feared. He doesn’t know what to picture when he thinks of the man, since details about him are scant.

Even with the research Pamela and her team do, there isn’t much to go on other than profiles on his holdings and standard personal information. No interviews or fluff pieces in any magazines, no images or permanent address. He’s ghostly, even if he exists on paper and through the word-of-mouth from the people in Noah’s circle.

During their _fourth_ aborted dinner, Jack sits across from Noah and finally musters up the courage to ask about him. “Carl is a busy man,” Noah explains as he cuts into his steak. “He has his hands in all sorts of things, most of it abroad.”

Jack glances at him from over his own dinner. “Why abroad?”

“Never asked,” the other man admits in between bites. “I should probably warn you: he’s not the most friendly sort of person. Very direct, doesn’t like small talk.”

“But appreciates a good meal?” Jack supplies with a grin.

Noah chuckles. “Who doesn’t, kid?”

“True,” he replies as he takes a sip from his wine glass. “Perhaps the fifth time will be a charm?”

“Here’s hoping,” Noah tells him.

They continue to talk over their meals and more drinks until Jack’s cheeks burn with alcohol. His tongue is leaden with it, making him unbearably thirsty. Jack downs the rest of his water before slipping on his coat and following after Noah.

There are moments when the restaurant's lighting seems too bright before Jack blinks it away. It’s only when he steps outside into the crisp night air that he realizes something is off. Stumbling into Noah, his mind begins to panic.

“What did you do to me?” he slurs as Noah keeps him upright. A black sedan appears at the curb, which the valet opens with a smile.

Noah laughs. “This one had a few too many,” he tells the valet.

“I have to go home,” Jack mumbles, pushing himself away from Noah. His body isn’t listening to his commands as he tries to walk and ends up crashing into the side of the building. He knows what’s about to happen and all Jack can think of is those harrowing moments in Paris before Kirill came to his rescue.

Heart pounding and consciousness dwindling, Jack pretends he’s reaching for his head and activates the distress beacon in his cufflink as Noah grabs him by the bicep. He’s hauled towards the car while Noah makes jokes at his expense to the valet before being pushed inside. The door slams shut, sending a jolt through Jack’s body as he tries to remain awake.  

Noah gets in on the other side. “Go,” he snaps to the driver.

“You played me,” Jack states as the sedan begins its trek into the night.

“Haven’t you been doing the same thing to me?” Noah questions. He removes his gloves and sets them on his lap, chuckling darkly. “This is what this business is about, Jack. Outplaying the others.”

He blinks. “Partnerships are delicate,” he hisses in defiance, even as his eyelids droop. “Sometimes they end violently.” It’s the very words Cheverin had told him - a phrase that has so many different meanings and yet is fitting in these circumstances.

There is a measure of satisfaction of watching the smug expression drain from Noah’s face as darkness swallows him, even if Jack knows he’s now at the other man’s mercy.

 

* * *

 

The sting of fear and burn of anger are the first sensations Jack feels when he begins to regain consciousness.

Pain stirs, spreading as he moves, and he groans, remembering he’s been drugged. Jack rolls onto his back, coughing, and begins blinking the sleep from his eyes. Once he’s able, he pushes himself upright, surprised to find that his captor has left him unattended on a couch. His jacket, briefcase, watch, and cell phone are missing, while his shoes have been placed on the floor with the laces neatly tucked inside of them.

“Ah good,” a man’s voice says. Jack turns to find its owner standing in the door, trying to place where he’s heard them before. “You’re awake.”

He watches as the man steps into the light, slowly revealing himself and the bottle of water he carries. Jack doesn’t know if it’s the sight of the other man’s whiskey-colored eyes or his face that makes his blood run cold first. Words, however, fail him as Avery Wallace comes to him.

“I apologize for the manner in which you were brought to me,” Avery continues. He sets the water on the coffee table and sits down next to it. The furniture creaks under his weight. “Secrecy is of the utmost importance; I’m sure you understand that, Jack.”

Jack’s eyes roam over Avery’s face, trying to figure out how this is possible. How he survived the helicopter crash, how he’s even sitting across from him. Age has touched Avery in the decade they’ve been apart; strands of silver run through his dark hair, crow’s feet appear at the corners of his eyes, and yet...

“How?” Avery asks as a slow smile curls at his lips. “I bet that’s what you’re wondering, isn’t it? Because you saw the report. How couldn’t you?” He tilts his head, studying Jack as his expression darkens. “It’s in your nature to put your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

The display sends a jolt of betrayal through Jack’s body. “You caused the crash,” he says.

“Correct,” the other man replies. “Jumped from the blasted thing and triggered a detonation. The black box was destroyed, too charred to be recovered…like the rest of the wreckage. It’s funny - I had _almost_ forgotten how smart you are, Jack. Time apart does that to people, wouldn’t you agree?”

He swallows and says nothing. Avery observes him before offering Jack the bottle of water, smiling when he declines with a shake of his head. “You always learned quickly, Dr. Ryan.” Avery leans closer to run his knuckles over Jack’s cheek. “I _do_ remember that about you, amongst other things.”

Jack shudders; the vibration runs from his head all the way through his body as he recoils from Avery’s touch. He bites the inside of his lip as he closes his eyes and turns away.

“Huh,” the other man says before retracing his hand and moving to give Jack space.

The reprieve is a temporary one, but it allows him to overcome the shock of seeing a dead man and gather his thoughts. “Carl Leaveway,” Jack whispers, finally able to face him.

He remembers the last time they were this close together - he in a hospital bed and Avery wearing his uniform. The delirium of pain medication and multiple surgeries clung to Jack while Avery stood at his side, unable to show his affection without raising eyebrows. He had spoken to him, whispering of all the trouble they’d cause together once Jack regained his health and the war was over.

“An alias, though not a very clever one,” Avery admits, casually. He shrugs, sighing as he glances around the room, a study, it seems. “I created him - Carl - ages ago. Long before we met. I was a career military man and had a future in black ops. It’s only natural to begin forming other identities for mission purposes.”

Jack stares at him. “Is Avery even your real name?”

To his surprise the other man laughs, almost hysterically, at his question. Avery throws his head back, shaking his dark wavy hair, as he rests a hand on his stomach. Dimples form at the corners of his mouth, just like Jack recalls, while the rich sound of Avery’s amusement fills the room.

“How clever you are,” he answers after a while. “My real name is Jason Bourne, though I haven’t been called that for ages now. Another man carries that mantle; if he’s worthy of it remains to be seen.”

“Worthy of…” Jack pauses, unable to comprehend what Avery is telling him. He stands and paces away from the couch, arms wrapped around his middle. “You say it like a name is a job title!”

Avery tilts his head. “In this line of work, it is.”

“What kind of line is that, exactly?” Jack hisses. “Where do I factor into _your_ line of work?”

“Jack,” Avery sighs. He pats the cushion next to him, circling over it with his palm. “Please sit down.”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine here, thanks,” Jack replies.

Avery frowns, but doesn’t try to force him to do anything. “Originally I sought to recruit you, and my being stationed with you was no coincidence. Your aptitude tests and basic training results were superior to those of your class. I was tasked to seek you out and report back to my superiors on whether or not you’d make an ideal candidate for Operation Blackbriar.”

“The successor to Operation Treadstone,” Jack adds, sourly. “Which I _assume_ you were a part of.”

“Very good,” Avery comments, arching a brow. “Most people know the program as a joint communications effort with the DOD or simply to track down a rogue asset. Someone must be telling you stories, Jack.”

He flashed him a dark smile. “This little bird won’t tell.”

Avery’s expression darkens as he leans back and stretches an arm over the back of the couch. “You were good at keeping secrets. Did your wife know about us? Did you ever tell her? Cathy, wasn’t it?” He raises a brow as a sneer appears on his face. “Did she know that you liked it rough, Jack? That you loved it when I bent you over my desk and took you while anyone could have walked in on us?”

Jack’s face begins to burn as Avery describes only half of the things they did together.

“No?” The other man chuckles. “Too ashamed to say you like cock?”

“Only ashamed of who gave it to me,” Jack retorts.

“Careful Jack,” Avery warns. “You wouldn’t want your friend, Kirill, to pay for your cheek.”

Oxygen rushes from his lungs at the realization of hearing Avery say his boyfriend’s name. It comes out like a curse, as if a demon is forming the consonants and vowels into something dark. Jack reaches out for a table corner and grips it, allowing the sharp edges to press into his palm. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing yet.” He watches Avery rising from his seat. “Though, that _could_ change very quickly.”

“Why are you doing this?” Jack asks, begs even. “You could have left it alone after Paris!”

Avery enters his sphere, shaking his head as he encroaches on Jack’s personal space. “I never wanted to kill you, Jack,” he says calmly. “I simply wanted to see what you could do.”

“What?” Jack croaks as he backs away.

The other man follows. “Don’t you realize that _everything_ , the course you’ve been set on, has been because of me? Tom Harper only saw your field analysis because _I_ made sure he did. Every single thing fell into place because _I_ put the pieces there.” He crowds Jack against the wall, using the two inches he has on the younger man to his full advantage. “I knew your wife was a sleeper agent and could keep eyes on you. She manipulated your decisions when you weren’t certain of them because I _asked_ her to.”

“No,” Jack whispers. His entire body trembles from the revelations spouted from Avery’s lips.

Avery nods. “Yes, Jack,” he replies. “The two things I didn’t count on were you connecting the dots with Viktor Cheverin _and_ Pamela Landy.”

“What about her?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Avery warns. “She’s the reason why we’re able to have this conversation. Had everything gone to plan, you would have been dead. Which brings us to Mr. Dragomirov; would you like to see him?”

Before Jack is able to answer, Avery grabs him by the bicep and leads him from the room. He realizes they’re in a penthouse apartment somewhere Manhattan from the glimpses of the skyline Jack is able to catch. If it weren’t for the tracking device still active in his cufflink, he would be panicking.

If only Pamela is able to find them before Avery decides to finish what he started. Or Kirill has a trick up his sleeve.

Jack breathes as he follows Avery past a sleek, yet barren kitchen. The entire apartment is devoid of personality, only revealing a shell of what could be if someone dared to make a home within its walls. As they turn a corner, Jack finds Kirill sitting at a dining table with Noah behind him.

Pressed into the back of his head is a gun.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Noah tells them.

Avery pushes Jack forward, watching him stumble. “Dr. Ryan and I had a lot to discuss,” he states as he relieves Noah of his duties and pulls a gun from his pocket. “Wait outside; this won’t take long.”

“Suit yourself,” Noah replies. He walks passed Jack, pausing to clap him on the shoulder. “It was good doing business with you, kid.”

Jack lunges at him, moving faster than anyone anticipated as he disarms Noah and sends him sprawling onto the floor. He trains Noah’s gun on its owner.

“Ah, ah!” Avery threatens. “Not so fast.”

“Fucking prick,” Noah spits at Jack, still holding his hands where Jack can see them. “I should have known something was off when they found you! You were too well fed; your injuries weren’t consistent with being tortured. The way you reacted when you came back!”

Jack kicks him. “Shut up, Noah.”

“Look who’s found his moxy,” Avery comments, impressed. He pokes Kirill with the barrel of the gun. “I see why you like him. After all, it’s why I did.”

“You _played_ me,” Jack growls. Rage seethes through him, turning his blood hot. “From the very beginning!”

Avery shrugs, unrepentant. “It’s the nature of this job. Hell, I’m sure that Mr. Dragomirov played you to a degree. Taking advantage of a grieving man and becoming his lover.”

Jack feels his heart lurch into his throat.

“I mean, I get it,” Avery says to Kirill. He glances over at Jack. “He’s handsome, intelligent. And you _do_ have a _type_ , don’t you?”

Kirill’s nostrils flare with rage - the only reaction to Avery’s words. “He didn’t tell you about Bourne, did he?” Avery continues to taunt, pressing the gun until Kirill lets out a pained grunt. “I remember when Abbott found out about _that_ and, fuck, he was livid.” He pats the Russian’s shoulder, curling his fingers around the joint. “You see, Jack, Kirill, here, has a thing for blue-eyed boys. If we weren’t in such a quandary, I would say that perhaps a chat between you and Jason Bourne would be wise.”

“You keep quiet,” Kirill hisses through a clenched jaw.

Avery smiles down at him with every ounce of malicious intent. “That’s right. He doesn’t remember you, does he? Is that why you took up with Jack? To chase away the ghosts?”

“You shouldn’t taunt a former FSB agent, Avery,” Jack snarls as he keeps his gun on Noah’s skull. “He might kill you.”

Avery cackles, dismissively, as he moves the barrel from Kirill’s head to his back. “I’ll fire a bullet into his liver and he’ll bleed out before you can send for help. Is that what you want? To have someone else die for you? Wasn’t your wife enough?”

“She didn’t die for me,” Jack corrects.

“Semantics,” Avery snaps.

It takes a moment for Avery and Jack to realize Kirill has moved. His actions are swift, deadly; he grabs Avery’s wrist, jerking it and the gun away from his body. Using all of his weight, Kirill slams Avery into the cabinet behind them, raining broken glass upon them.

They fight over the gun - Avery desperate to keep a firm grip on it and Kirill prying it from the other man’s fingers. The struggle moves passed the table to several feet away from Jack and Noah. In the moments that follow, Avery gets the upper hand by straddling Kirill’s waist with the gun pointed at his chest.

Jack hears the deafening clap of two guns firing behind realizing he’s pulled the trigger. He watches blood spray out the exit wound on Avery’s forehead as he slumps over, crumbling onto the floor next to Kirill.

_Kirill._

“Kirill!” Jack shouts as he rushes over to him, skidding against the rapidly growing pool of blood. He drops to his knees, wondering for a harrowing moment if he’s already dead.

Then he sees Kirill’s eyes flutter, struggling to stay open as the gaping wound in his chest saturates his shirt with blood. Over the sounds of an approaching stampede - Pamela and her team, more likely than not - Jack drops the gun and presses his hands against Kirill’s chest, applying pressure to slow the bleeding. “Stay with me,” he begs, eyes filling with tears. “Kirill, stay with me. _Please_!”

Kirill blinks up at him, lips moving wordlessly as his skin pales from blood loss.

“Please stay with me,” Jack sobs, applying more pressure. “Don’t you dare die on me, Kirill! We’re in this together. You told me that and you can’t leave me, okay?”

“ _Ya lyublyu tebya_ ,” Krill whispers as a dazed smile spreads his pale lips. “ _Yagnenok, ya lyublyu tebya_.”

As medics push Jack out of the way, he watches Kirill’s eyes roll up into his skull.

For all of the horrors he’s seen since this begun, none of them have made him actually scream. He’s wanted to; god, he’s wanted to. He’s wanted to curse the heavens and scream until his voice was a shattered, broken thing.

It comes tearing from his throat, filling the apartment with his anguish and rage, surprising Jack.

Though not as much as when no one dares to stop him.


	7. Chapter 7

Nearly six hours pass before Jack hears news about Kirill.

While he waits for word on Kirill’s surgery wearing bloodstained clothes, he prays to every god or deity he can remember, begging them to keep Kirill alive. Bartering for favors Jack cannot begin to repay. Making deals to move the sun and moon just for his lover to survive.

The beginnings of insanity curl at the edges of his vision, beckoning Jack to join them in the free fall that will ease his sorrow. Even with Tom and Pamela sitting beside him, offering words of comfort, they scream loudly in his ears.

“Kirill’s a stubborn son of a bitch,” Tom assures as he rubs Jack’s shoulders and doesn’t comment on his glassy, tired eyes.

Pamela nods in agreement. “The best doctors in the country are operating on him. He’s going to make it.”

Jack only swallows and keeps praying until someone - _something_ \- listens.

The surgeon, a sprite of a woman with dark hair and dark skin, assigned to Kirill’s case comes out through the flapping doors of the ward. She stands before them in a fresh pair of scrubs and a grim expression. “He’s made it through the surgery,” she announces. “With the amount of blood he’s lost and the close proximity to his lungs, it comes as no surprise that he hasn’t regained consciousness…”

Jack can’t listen to the rest; he drops his face into his hands and sobs.

The words _cardiac arrest, transfusion, intubation_ float over him as Pamela, Tom, and the surgeon converse over Kirill’s prognosis. He doesn’t need to know that the next twenty-four hours are critical to his lover’s recovery; he remembers his own injuries and what the doctors whispered when they thought he was asleep.

Jack doesn’t really care about the semantics of keeping Kirill alive, so long as he lives and will become whole. He can’t think of the other outcome or he’ll fall apart more than he already has. Someone touches his shoulder and Jack blinks, looking up to find Tom standing in front of him.

“Why don’t we take you back to your apartment so you can get cleaned up and grab some things…”

He shakes his head. “No.” The word is hoarse and brittle on his tongue. “I’m staying here.”

“Kid,” Tom sighs. He squats down to eye level, his hand still firmly planted on Jack’s shoulder. “You’re exhausted and look like a mess. We’d only be gone for a few hours at most.”

Jack shrugs Tom’s hand off him. “I’m staying here,” he hiccups through tears. They fall down his already raw cheeks, stinging until they disappear under the collar of his ruined shirt. He hugs his arms around his middle, glancing at his mentor and friend.

Tom opens his mouth to plead with him when Pamela interjects to diffuse the situation. “One of us can go to your apartment and get you a fresh change of clothes,” she says. “Once we know more about Kirill’s condition, you can go back over. If you’d like.”

As he palms his face, Jack nods before reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket to retrieve his keys. With a shaking hand, he holds them out for the taking.

It’s a side-effect from the sedative Noah slipped into his drink. Cradling his forehead in one of his hands, he wills away the dizziness and dull pain of a headache. He’s refused medical treatment twice now; once as Kirill was being carted into the ambulance, and again when he sat down in the surgical ward.

Since then, no one has brought it up.

“Here,” Pamela says, gently. She’s holding a styrofoam cup under his nose and nods in understanding when Jack blinks at her with uncertainty. “It’s just water.”

He takes it from her and sips slowly as Pamela takes a seat next to him. “Tom went back to your place to get some things,” she explains. “We can go see Kirill once they’re done setting up his room.” Leaning back into the chair, she plays with the belt on her trench coat. “I’ve requested that they allow you to sleep in there.”

“Thank you,” Jack intones.

“On one condition,” Pamela adds, arching a brow. “You get an IV of fluids to clear out the rest of whatever they gave you.” She sees that Jack is about to counter her and frowns. “For just a few hours. That’s all.”

Relenting, Jack nods. He’s too tired have this or any other argument.

By the time he’s finished drinking down the water, a nurse has appeared to escort them to Kirill’s room. He’s tucked in a quiet corner of ICU where an agent stands guard just outside his door. The agent greets with them with a nod and holds the door open as they file inside.

The hospital room is dimly lit by an eerie blue light cast by the monitors, whose noises fill the space when Jack can’t hear the surgeon and another nurse conversing behind the curtain. He steps around it, inhaling sharply as his eyes find Kirill’s prone body in the bed.

Realistically, Jack knew _this_ was going to be bad. He spent hours preparing himself for it, and now that it’s finally in front of him, tears reemerge and pool at his waterline. Save for the ventilation machine breathing for him, Kirill is uncharacteristically motionless. His golden complexion has paled to a sallow, grey hue reserved for very ill people. Somewhere under the light blue hospital gown lies the bullet wound - now sewn up and bandaged - that nearly ended his life.

It had come so close, too close.

Jack comes closer, noting how small and fragile the machines, tubes, and wires make Kirill appear.

The surgeon and nurse move out of his way so Jack can sit by his boyfriend’s bedside. Without a word, he reaches for one of Kirill’s hands, afraid of doing anything more. Cool skin brushes against his fingertips as Jack runs them over the other man’s knuckles.

Kirill is supposed to be warm, far warmer than he. He should be opening his eyes, blinking as he comes out of a deep sleep and smiling once he sees Jack’s face.

Everything about this is wrong. Kirill is meant to be whole and hale, not having a ventilator driving oxygen in and out of his lungs as he fights for his life.

Jack presses his forehead into the edge of the hospital bed and begins sobbing. As swollen tears pour down his face, Jack’s entire body heaves with each whimper. He doesn’t even try to contain himself, uncaring of who hears or sees his grief.

 

* * *

 

In the five days Kirill is unconscious, Jack ceases to think about anything else.

He barely sleeps, hardly eats, and never leaves Kirill’s bedside unless it’s necessary. The thought of being parted from him makes Jack’s stomach tie itself into knots. So he situates himself in the uncomfortable plastic chair and laces their fingers together. Jack watches every number on the monitors and each flutter of Kirill’s dark eyelashes, silently willing his lover to wake up. To get well and to come back to him.

Basically, he’s stopped functioning and doesn’t care if he’s withering away. So long as Kirill will recover and he doesn’t have to be in the world with him…he’ll do _anything_ to make it so.  

Even at the expense of his own health.

No one has the heart to dissuade his destructive vigil, though they bring Jack food from the cafeteria on the bottom floor of the hospital. A sandwich and bag of chips here, a salad there, some fruit - he only eats the bare minimum just to make them go away.

His jeans fit looser than before and there are times Jack stands up to stretch where he feels lightheaded as if his body is warning him to stop this.

 _This isn’t what Kirill would want you to do,_ it reminds him when he runs his thumb over the hills and valleys of Kirill’s knuckles. Tears sting his eyes, blurring the image of his boyfriend hooked up to so many machines until Jack wipes them away.

_You and I, we’re in this together._

It’s what Kirill told him over and over again. When Jack thought darkness would swallow him whole, it was his boyfriend’s words that brought him back.

He leans forward, bringing his mouth close to Kirill’s ear. “You can’t leave me,” Jack whispers as he strokes the messy strands of dark hair off his lover’s forehead. “Not like this; you can’t leave me like this. We’re in this together, Kirill.”

Jack tells him of the plans he’s made for them; of having a life together out in the open, taking an extended vacation, getting married - all of the things he dreamt about, but never told him. He speaks until his voice is hoarse and he’s fighting to stay awake.

He doesn’t remember when he stops; only that when Jack opens his eyes, Kirill is still alive and growing warmer by the day.

 

* * *

 

It’s late in the evening of the fourth day when Kirill begins fighting the tubes.

The sound comes as a hiccup, followed by a pneumatic hiss of the ventilator trying to set its own rhythm. When it happens for a second time, Jack pages the doctors as he keeps his eyes on Kirill. He would hate for him to come up with a tube down his throat, but Jack can only feel elation.

It’s a huge milestone; after so many hours with small amounts of progress, something tangible and good is _finally_ happening.

Once the surgeon - Doctor Jivika Garg, he’s learned on the second day - evaluates Kirill’s condition, and decides it’s time to extubate him. She shoos Jack from the room, telling him to go get himself something to eat. “You look like skin and bones,” Dr. Garg states in a motherly tone.

Instead he waits outside on a bench with another agent to keep him company. Neither of them are in the mood for small talk, so Jack sits in silence while he picks at his cuticles. It will be no small comfort to find that damn ventilator powered down and replaced by an oxygen mask; Kirill will appear less fragile.

A nurse opens the door to Kirill’s room and pokes her head out. “You can come back in,” Dr. Garg tells Jack with a smile.

He’s quick go to Kirill’s bedside, sighing heavily as he sees the oxygen mask fastened to Kirill’s face fogging up with each exhale. Jack stands on the other side of the bed, watching as Dr. Garg reviews the outputs generated by the medical equipment, and takes Kirill’s hand. He gives it a comforting squeeze, rubbing a slow circle over one knuckle.

“I think Mr. Dragomirov is going to be joining us soon,” she finally tells him.

Jack chuckles as his shoulders slump in relief. “Yeah?” he croaks, his eyes finding Kirill’s face. A small smile creeps across his dry lips. “I’ll be here waiting.”

He doesn’t have to wait long. Kirill seems to be just as impatient as Jack when it comes to regaining consciousness and does so the next morning.

It’s a groan muffled by the oxygen mask that alerts Jack to his lover’s awakening. After days of silence, he’s being greeted with the sound of Kirill’s voice. Jack stands over him, watching as Kirill’s brows furrow in discomfort and adjusts his head against the pillow.

He could cry at how wondrous the sight is. “Hey,” Jack whispers as he presses the pager and drops the button on the bed. He cups Kirill’s cheek with one hand while other cards his messy hair. “Hey baby, welcome back.”

Kirill makes an incoherent noise as his eyes flutter open, glazed over and bloodshot. They shut immediately after, despite his efforts. He pulls a disgruntled face that Jack soothes away by kissing the creases on his forehead. With a sigh, Kirill relaxes into Jack’s touch and mumbles something that becomes lost in the oxygen mask.

All the while, Jack continues talking to him while they wait for the surgeon to come. He knows how disconcerting it is to wake up in a hospital, even if there’s some memory of how it happened. Jack remembers when he injured his back and opened his eyes to the muzziness of pain medication slowing the thoughts in his head and heightening the illumination of the field hospital lights.

The fear he felt when he overheard the doctor say to another that he would never walk again, it was palpable until he was put under. However, when Jack woke, it dulled thanks to the medication pumped into his IV and the fact he could still feel his body.

“Dr. Ryan,” Dr. Garg addresses him as she touches his shoulder. She smiles kindly when Jack turns to her. “We’ll need a few moments to assess your partner. Do you mind waiting outside?”

He shakes his head before gazing at Kirill. “I’m going to step out for a second,” Jack tells him. Kirill grunts weakly as he nuzzles Jack’s hand in answer. “Okay. See you in a bit.” He kisses his boyfriend’s brow, lingering for just a moment, and leaves.

Outside, he collapses on the bench and removes his cell phone from the pocket of his hoodie. Shaking with unmitigated joy, he sends a text message to Tom and Pamela, telling of them of the good news. Tears well in his eyes and silently fall down his cheeks for the countless time since Kirill was wounded. Jack sniffles, dabbing them away with the edges of his sleeve as he finishes typing the message and hits send.

Something inside of his chest rattles as he exhales, loosening the agony he’s held in since setting foot in Kirill’s hospital room. On its heels comes pure and utter relief. It sinks into Jack’s body, cradling it while he waits for someone to come find him.

It’s one of the nurses who pokes her head out and beckons him back inside.

Jack goes to Kirill’s bedside and clasps their hands together as he takes a seat. A tired, muffled grunt comes from the other man as his eyes flutter open, shiny and bright. Jack grins at him and scoots closer. “You’re back,” he says.

Kirill nods, eyes drooping shut. Moments later, it appears he’s dropped off into a fitful doze; unsurprising given the circumstances.

“He’s going to be in and out of it for a little bit,” Dr. Garg cautions as she hands Kirill’s chart to a nurse. “If Mr. Dragomirov continues improving, perhaps we will be able to switch him over to a nasal cannula.”

Jack glances over his shoulder at her and nods. “Thank you.”

“You’re both welcome,” she replies, offering him a gentle smile before leaving.

 

* * *

 

He falls asleep.

All rationale points to this as a normal reaction, an answer to the stress of Kirill’s hospitalization and Jack running himself ragged. Exhaustion comes when he’s sitting by Kirill’s side, watching every breath his lover takes until his eyelids become too heavy to keep open. Jack decides to rest his head next to Kirill’s arm for just a moment.

It’s only natural for him to do so, especially after what has befallen them both.

Jack doesn’t remember dropping off and for how long he stays like that.

A vague memory - half-formed in the recesses of his mind - of someone rousing him by shaking his shoulder interrupts his spurt of unconsciousness. They whisper commands for him to follow like a dream.

 _Just a few steps_ , their nondescript voice tells him. _Sit down. Move your arm like this. Like this. There you go. Let me take off your shoes. Okay, you can lie back now._

They handle him as if Jack is a child; treating him gently, speaking softly and soothingly. They help him to the couch under the window where they remove his shoes and ruffling his hair. Automatically Jack lies down without prompting. He’s dozing off when a warm hand touches him, beckoning Jack to lift his head for a pillow. He mumbles his thanks while a blanket is pulling up to his chin and the edges gently tucked around him. Jack doesn’t complain; he’s too far gone.

 _Rest now,_ they say.

It’s the permission he needs to finally let go and allow himself to be guided into darkness’s bosom.

 

* * *

 

During the twenty hours Jack sleeps, Kirill’s oxygen mask is exchanged for a nasal cannula and his condition is upgraded to stable.

Visitors come and go - Tom, Pamela, and Cronin being some of them - while the hospital staff check in on their patient. Their talking and shuffling about doesn’t come close to waking Jack, whose only movements are increments of body parts readjusting themselves or when he smacks his lips together.

He’s lost in an endless sea of black, neither fearful or worried. After days of quick naps or nightmare-plagued dreams, Jack is finally resting fitfully. There are moments where people’s voices enter his mind, though they’re never able to fully rouse him until Jack hears the familiar chords of Kirill’s baritone.

Stretching his body like a cat and yawning, Jack digs the heel of his palm into one eye while he blinks the other one furiously. The hospital room comes into view, sterile as ever, and reveals that the lights are on, indicating it’s the evening.

“ _Yagnenok_ ,” Kirill wheezes, his voice fragile like dried leaves.

Jack is off the couch and sitting by his lover’s bedside in the blink of an eye. “I’m here,” he assures, reaching for Kirill’s hand and pressing his lips to warm skin over and over. “I’m right here, baby.”

“I was beginning to wonder when you’d wake up,” Kirill tells him with a tired smile. He rubs his thumb over Jack’s mouth, observing him quietly. “Pamela said you needed the rest. Ran yourself into the ground, she told me. She and Tom were worried.”

He winces upon hearing this, especially from Kirill, who is far from whole. “I was too worried about you to think about much else,” Jack confesses. He cups one of Kirill’s pale cheeks, noticing that at some point one of the nurses must have helped him shower. His hair flops over his brow carelessly and shines under the hospital lights. “I wanted to make sure you were going to be okay.”

“Eventually,” Kirill replies, shutting his eyes. “Until then, Dr. Garg is liberal with pain medication. I like her.”

Jack chuckles, brushing his fingers over a faint trail of freckles on Kirill’s nose. “Is that so? Do you think I have competition?”

“ _Nyet_ ,” Kirill says. “Love you too much.”

“I love you, too,” Jack replies, leaning closer. His nuzzles the tip of his nose against Kirill’s before brushing their lips together. Dry and crackled and too chaste, it doesn’t matter to them.

Once Jack has cleaned himself up, he orders them room service and finds a mindless television show to watch while they wait. His attention is mostly focused on Kirill, who dozes on and off.

“I did not want you to find out about him like that,” he says while looking at their clasped hands.

Jack raises his brows. “Find out about what?”

“Jason,” Kirill answers quietly. His gaze is focused on something in the distance; he looks apprehensive, a look that Kirill never wears well. “What that man said about him…about us. It was not like you and I. I did not love him.”

“Hey,” Jack begins to say, moving closer. He caresses his boyfriend’s jaw, shaking his head. “Whatever happened with you and him…I know it doesn’t affect us.”

Kirill nods. “I would have told you about him eventually. When I felt the time was right.”

“You can still do that,” Jack comments, grinning. “Whenever you want to, I’m here.”

“When I took this assignment, I did not expect to fall in love with you,” Kirill tells him as he returns Jack’s smile with one of his own. “You have a way of getting under my skin, as you Americans say, _da_?”

He beams - it’s the only way to describe Jack’s reaction as Kirill’s words warm his entire body. Of all the things that have befallen him, finding Kirill was the least expected and most welcomed. As his life goes on, now without the threat of Avery Wallace, Jack wants to keep Kirill and build upon what they already have.

“Yes,” Jack agrees as he runs his fingers over his lover’s lips. “And the feeling’s mutual.”

 

* * *

 

Healing is a tedious thing and when Kirill is able, he uses the time to voice his annoyance of being confined to bed.

He’s been in the hospital for nearly three weeks, one of which he spent unconscious and the others unable to stay away for more than forty-five minutes, at most.

“You were shot in the chest,” Jack reminds with rueful smile. They are squeezed together in the bed, ignoring the peculiar stares they get from the medical staff.

Kirill casts an annoyed expression in Jack’s direction. “People get shot,” he grumbles. A hiss of discomfort passes through his clenched teeth when he attempts to move.

Jack sighs as he rearranges Kirill’s pillows, shaking his head all the while. “Take it easy, baby,” he tells him as he reaches for a cup filled with ice chips. He feeds them to Kirill, chuckling while the other man begrudgingly chews and swallows them.

When Kirill sticks his bottom lip out to pout, Jack leans over and kisses him soundly as he tries to contain his laughter. It doesn’t matter that Kirill grumbles under his mouth or leaves him yearning for more; he’s alive and warm under the weight of Jack’s hands.

As the weeks turns into the fourth since Kirill’s hospital stay began, Jack ventures down to the cafeteria to stretch his legs and grab a sandwich rather than ordering room service. His lover is sleeping, having tired after half a round of chess, and snores softly when Jack leaves.

He decides to eat in the courtyard and enjoy the unseasonably pleasant New York day. Jack wanders back to the hospital room after a while to find Pamela and Cronin standing outside. They are deep in conversation, though their eyes are glued to the activity beyond the door. Jack picks up his pace and as he’s about to ask Pamela what’s going on, he sees a man, whose dirty blonde hair is greying at the temples, standing over Kirill’s bed.

Jack wordlessly enters the room, earning a lethal stare from the palest blue eyes he’s ever seen. He appears to be maybe a bit older than Kirill’s forty-two years. Jack pauses and holds his hands up in surrender, a move which seems to pacify the man. The stranger turns his attention back to Kirill, looking him over as if he’s trying to solve something.

Why he’s standing over Kirill’s bed makes Jack curious - perhaps an old friend - _and_ nervous. Clearly Pamela knows him well enough to allow him into the room unattended, but it doesn’t do much to ease the knot of apprehension in Jack’s stomach.

“She told me about you,” the man says without looking back.

Jack blinks, surprised to hear him speak. “She…Pamela?” he asks.

This earns a critical glance from the stranger before he lets out a sigh and goes back to focusing on Kirill. He takes in every detail of him, furrowing his eyebrows in thought. “The last time I saw him, he was half dead in a tunnel in Moscow,” he muses more to himself than Jack.

It’s then Kirill’s voice fills his head, containing a puzzle piece and an answer to a question that Jack never asked. _The last time I saw him was in a tunnel and he had a gun pointed at my skull. He did not shoot and left._

“Bourne,” Jack whispers, earning an unreadable expression from the other man. “You’re Jason Bourne,” he says louder this time.

He expects him to bolt at the mention of his name, but Jason Bourne does no such thing. He doesn’t move from Kirill’s bedside and nods. Firmly rooted, Jason’s stare is back on Kirill, watching every breath and flutter of movement. Like he’s trying to solve the puzzle that makes up the other man or learning to read the language of his body.

“Do you remember him?” Jack questions, choosing his words carefully.

A flicker of sadness tightens Jason’s features. It’s a silent answer, affirming all the reasons why this man is standing there. “I remember we were…” his voice trails off as he swallows. “I know there was something. I don’t remember the details.”

They exchange a look before they each dwell in their own thoughts. Eventually Jack breaks the silence by clearing his throat. “I don’t think he’s angry with you,” he tells Jason.

Jason shrugs. “I guess you can’t really be angry at someone who doesn’t remember,” he intones, darkly.

 _No,_ Jack muses to himself, _I suppose you can’t._

“Well,” Jason says after a while. “I should go before he wakes.” He moves, almost soundlessly, and brushes Jack’s arm.

Suddenly fingers are around his elbow, squeezing while holding Jack in place as Jason looks him dead in the eye. “And don’t tell him I was here.”

Jack shakes his head. “I can’t lie to him,” he replies, insistent.

Jason’s eyes drift to Kirill once more, watching as he remains oblivious and deep in sleep. It’s like the rogue asset is trying to remember something, _anything_ to connect him to Kirill, except his mind fails him.

Finally, he turns to Jack, letting go of him. “Take care of him,” Jason orders, though his tone is gentle.

He leaves before Jack can reply.

“I will,” he promises to no one before going to Kirill’s side.

And he does. They both do.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Always love you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012764) by [froggy_freek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/froggy_freek/pseuds/froggy_freek)




End file.
